FREE  JOE 


GEORGIAN 
SKETCHES 


BY 

JOEL 

CHANDLER 

IV^RIS 


x- 


"Den  I  tell  him  'bout  de  man  down  dar  in  de  gully" 


—Free  Joe 


FREE  JOE 

AND 

OTHER  GEORGIAN  SKETCHES 


BY 


JOEL   CHANDLER    HARRIS 

AUTHOR  or  "UNCLE  REMUS,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRA  TED 


P.  F.  COLLIER    &   SON 
NEW  YORK 


Copyright  1887  by 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


CONTENTS 


1-.  T  PAGE 

FREE  JOE      

"       *       •          o 

LITTLE  COMPTON 

AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER   ....  og 

TROUBLE  ON  LOST  MOUNTAIN I37 

AZALIA 183 


VOL.  3 


FREE    JOE    AND    THE    REST 
OF    THE    WORLD 

THE  name  of  Free  Joe  strikes  humorously 
upon  the  ear  of  memory.  It  is  impossible  to 
say  why,  for  he  was  the  humblest,  the  simplest, 
and  the  most  serious  of  all  God's  living  crea 
tures,  sadly  lacking  in  all  those  elements  that 
suggest  the  humorous.  It  is  certain,  moreover, 
that  in  1850  the  sober-minded  citizens  of  the 
little  Georgian  village  of  Hillsborough  were  not 
inclined  to  take  a  humorous  view  of  Free  Joe, 
and  neither  his  name  nor  his  presence  provoked 
a  smile.  He  was  a  black  atom,  drifting  hither 
and  thither  without  an  owner,  blown  about  by 
all  the  winds  of  circumstance,  and  given  over  to 
shiftlessness. 

The  problems  o'f  one  generation  are  the  para 
doxes  of  a  succeeding  one,  particularly  if  war, 
or  some  such  incident,  intervenes  to  clarify  the 

3 


4  Free  Joe 

atmosphere  and  strengthen  the  understanding. 
Thus,  in  1850,  Free  Joe  represented  not  only  a 
problem  of  large  concern,  but,  in  the  watchful 
eyes  of  Hillsborough,  he  was  the  embodiment 
of  that  vague  and  mysterious  danger  that  seemed 
to  be  forever  lurking  on  the  outskirts  of  slavery, 
ready  to  sound  a  shrill  and  ghostly  signal  in  the 
impenetrable  swamps,  and  steal  forth  under  the 
midnight  stars  to  murder,  rapine,  and  pillage — 
a  danger  always  threatening,  and  yet  never  as 
suming  shape;  intangible,  and  yet  real;  impos 
sible,  and  yet  not  improbable.  Across  the  serene 
and  smiling  front  of  safety,  the  pale  outlines  of 
the  awful  shadow  of  insurrection  sometimes  fell. 
With  this  invisible  panorama  as  a  background, 
it  was  natural  that  the  figure  of  Free  Joe,  sim 
ple  and  humble  as  it  was,  should  assume  undue 
proportions.  Go  where  he  would,  do  what  he 
might,  he  could  not  escape  the  finger  of  obser 
vation  and  the  kindling  eye  of  suspicion.  His 
lightest  words  were  noted,  his  slightest  actions 
marked. 

Under  all  the  circumstances  it  was  natural 
that  his  peculiar  condition  should  reflect  itself 


And  the  Rest  of  the  World  5 

in  his  habits  and  manners.  The  slaves  laughed 
loudly  day  by  day,  but  Free  Joe  rarely  laughed. 
•The  slaves  sang  at  their  work  and  danced  at 
their  frolics,  but  no  one  ever  heard  Free  Joe 
sing  or  saw  him  dance.  There  was  something 
painfully  plaintive  and  appealing  in  his  atti 
tude,  something  touching  in  his  anxiety  to 
please.  He  was  of  the  friendliest  nature,  and 
seemed  to  be  delighted  when  he  could  amuse 
the  little  children  who  had  made  a  playground 
of  the  public  square.  At  times  he  would  please 
them  by  making  his  little  dog  Dan  perform  all 
sorts  of  curious  tricks,  or  he  would  tell  them 
quaint  stories  of  the  beasts  of  the  field  and  birds 
of  the  air;  and  frequently  he  was  coaxed  into 
relating  the  story  of  his  own  freedom.  That 
story  was  brief,  but  tragical. 

In  the  year  of  our  Lord  1840,  when  a  negro 
speculator  of  a  sportive  turn  of  mind  reached 
the  little  village  of  Hillsborough  on  his  way  to 
the  Mississippi  region,  with  a  caravan  of  likely 
negroes  of  both  sexes,  he  found  much  to  interest 
him.  In  that  day  and  at  that  time  there  were  a 
number  of  young  men  in  the  village  who  had 


6  Free  Joe 

not  bound  themselves  over  to  repentance  for  the 
various  misdeeds  of  the  flesh.  To  these  young 
men  the  negro  speculator  (Major  Frampton  was 
his  name)  proceeded  to  address  himself.  He 
was  a  Virginian,  he  declared;  and,  to  prove  the 
statement,  he  referred  all  the  festively  inclined 
young  men  of  Hillsborough  to  a  barrel  of  peach- 
brandy  in  one  of  his  covered  wagons.  In  the 
minds  of  these  young  men  there  was  less  doubt 
in  regard  to  the  age  and  quality  of  the  brandy 
than  there  was  in  regard  to  the  negro  trader's 
birthplace.  Major  Frampton  might  or  might 
not  have  been  born  in  the  Old  Dominion — that 
was  a  matter  for  consideration  and  inquiry — 
but  there  could  be  no  question  as  to  the  mellow 
pungency  of  the  peach-brandy. 

In  his  own  estimation,  Major  Frampton  was 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  of  men.  He  had 
summered  at  the  Virginia  Springs;  he  had  been 
to  Philadelphia,  to  Washington,  to  Richmond, 
to  Lynchburg,  and  to  Charleston,  and  had  accu 
mulated  a  great  deal  of  experience  which  he 
found  useful.  Hillsborough  was  hid  in  the 
woods  of  Middle  Georgia,  and  its  general  as- 


And  the  Rest  of  the  World  7 

pect  of  innocence  impressed  him.  He  looked 
on  the  young  men  who  had  shown  their  readi 
ness  to  test  his  peach-brandy  as  overgrown 
country  boys  who  needed  to  be  introduced  to 
some  of  the  arts  and  sciences  he  had  at  his  com 
mand.  Thereupon  the  major  pitched  his  tents, 
figuratively  speaking,  and  became,  for  the  time 
being,  a  part  and  parcel  of  the  innocence  that 
characterized  Hillsborough.  A  wiser  man 
would  doubtless  have  made  the  same  mistake. 
The  little  village  possessed  advantages  that 
seemed  to  be  providentially  arranged  to  fit  the 
various  enterprises  that  Major  Frampton  had  in 
view.  There  was  the  auction  block  in  front  of 
the  stuccoed  court-house,  if  he  desired  to  dispose 
of  a  few  of  his  negroes;  there  was  a  quarter- 
track,  laid  out  to  his  hand  and  in  excellent 
order,  if  he  chose  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  horse- 
racing;  there  were  secluded  pine  thickets  within 
easy  reach,  if  he  desired  to  indulge  in  the  ex 
citing  pastime  of  cock-fighting;  and  variously 
lonely  and  unoccupied  rooms  in  the  second  story 
of  the  tavern,  if  he  cared  to  challenge  the 
chances  of  dice  or  cards. 


8  Free  Joe 

Major  Frampton  tried  them  all  with  vary 
ing  luck,  until  he  began  his  famous  game  of 
poker  with  Judge  Alfred  Wellington,  a  stately 
gentleman  with  a  flowing  white  beard  and  mild 
blue  eyes  that  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a 
benevolent  patriarch.  The  history  of  the  game 
in  which  Major  Frampton  and  Judge  Alfred 
Wellington  took  part  is  something  more  than 
a  tradition  in  Hillsborough,  for  there  are  still 
living  three  or  four  men  who  sat  around  the 
table  and  watched  its  progress.  It  is  said  thaf 
at  various  stages  of  the  game  Major  Frampton 
would  destroy  the  cards  with  which  they  were 
playing,  and  send  for  a  new  pack,  but  the  re 
sult  was  always  the  same.  The  mild  blue  eyes 
of  Judge  Wellington,  with  few  exceptions,  con 
tinued  to  overlook  "hands"  that  were  invincible 
— a  habit  they  had  acquired  during  a  long  and 
arduous  course  of  training  from  Saratoga  to 
New  Orleans.  Major  Frampton  lost  his  money, 
his  horses,  his  wagons,  and  all  his  negroes  but 
one,  his  body-servant.  When  his  misfortune 
had  reached  this  limit,  the  major  adjourned  the 
game.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  and  all 


And  the  Rest  of  the  World  9 

nature  was  cheerful.  It  is  said  that  the  major 
also  seemed  to  be  cheerful.  However  this  may 
be,  he  visited  the  court-house,  and  executed  the 
papers  that  gave  his  body-servant  his  freedom. 
This  being  done,  Major  Frampton  sauntered 
into  a  convenient  pine  thicket,  and  blew  out  his 
brains. 

The  negro  thus  freed  came  to  be  known  as 
Free  Joe.  Compelled,  under  the  law,  to  choose 
a  guardian,  he  chose  Judge  Wellington,  chiefly 
because  his  wife  Lucinda  was  among  the  negroes 
won  from  Major  Frampton.  For  several  years 
Free  Joe  had  what  may  be  called  a  jovial  time. 
His  wife  Lucinda  was  well  provided  for,  and 
he  found  it  a  comparatively  easy  matter  to  pro 
vide  for  himself;  so  that,  taking  all  the  circum 
stances  into  consideration,  it  is  not  matter  for 
astonishment  that  he  became  somewhat  shiftless. 

When  Judge  Wellington  died,  Free  Joe's 
troubles  began.  The  judge's  negroes,  including 
Lucinda,  went  to  his  half-brother,  a  man  named 
Calderwood,  who  was  a  hard  master  and  a 
rough  customer  generally — a  man  of  many  ec 
centricities  of  mind  and  character.  His  neigh- 


io  Free  Joe 

bors  had  a  habit  of  alluding  to  him  as  "Old 
Spite";  and  the  name  seemed  to  fit  him  so  com 
pletely  that  he  was  known  far  and  near  as 
"Spite"  Calderwood.  He  probably  enjoyed  the 
distinction  the  name  gave  him,  at  any  rate  he 
never  resented  it,  and  it  was  not  often  that  he 
missed  an  opportunity  to  show  that  he  deserved 
it.  Calderwood's  place  was  two  or  three  miles 
from  the  village  of  Hillsborough,  and  Free  Joe 
visited  his  wife  twice  a  week,  Wednesday  and 
Saturday  nights. 

One  Sunday  he  was  sitting  in  front  of  Lu- 
cinda's  cabin,  when  Calderwood  happened  to 
pass  that  way. 

"Howdy,  marster?"  said  Free  Joe,  taking  off 
his  hat. 

"Who  are  you?"  exclaimed  Calderwood 
abruptly,  halting  and  staring  at  the  negro. 

"I'm  name'  Joe,  marster.     I'm  Lucindy's  ole 


man." 


"Who  do  you  belong  to?" 
"Marse  John  Evans  is  my  gyardeen,  marster." 
"Big  name — gyardeen.     Show  your  pass." 
Free  Joe  produced  that  document,  and  Cal- 


'And  the  Rest  of  the  World  II 

derwood  read  it  aloud  slowly,  as  if  he  found  it 
difficult  to  get  at  the  meaning: 

"7"o  whom  it  may  concern:  This  is  to  certify 
that  the  boy  Joe  Frampton  has  my  permission 
to  visit  his  wife  Lucinda." 

This  was  dated  at  Hillsborough,  and  signed 
"John  W.  Evans." 

Calderwood  read  it  twice,  and  then  looked  at 
Free  Joe,  elevating  his  eyebrows,  and  showing 
his  discolored  teeth. 

"Some  mighty  big  words  in  that  there.  Evans 
owns  this  place,  I  reckon.  When's  he  comin' 
down  to  take  hold?" 

Free  Joe  fumbled  with  his  hat.  He  was 
badly  frightened. 

"Lucindy  say  she  speck  you  wouldn't  min' 
my  comin',  long  ez  I  behave,  marster." 

Calderwood  tore  the  pass  in  pieces  and  flung 
it  away. 

"Don't  want  no  free  niggers  'round  here,"  he 
exclaimed.  "There's  the  big  road.  It'll  carry 
you  to  town.  Don't  let  me  catch  you  here  no 
more.  Now,  mind  what  I  tell  you." 

Free  Joe  presented  a  shabby  spectacle  as  he 


12  Free  Joe 

moved  off  with  his  little  dog  Dan  slinking  at  his 
heels.  It  should  be  said  in  behalf  of  Dan,  how 
ever,  that  his  bristles  were  up,  and  that  he 
looked  back  and  growled.  It  may  be  that  the 
dog  had  the  advantage  of  insignificance,  but  it 
is  difficult  to  conceive  how  a  dog  bold  enough 
to  raise  his  bristles  under  Calderwood's  very 
eyes  could  be  as  insignificant  as  Free  Joe.  But 
both  the  negro  and  his  little  dog  seemed  to  give 
a  new  and  more  dismal  aspect  to  forlornness  as 
they  turned  into  the  road  and  went  toward  Hills- 
borough. 

After  this  incident  Free  Joe  appeared  to  have 
clearer  ideas  concerning  his  peculiar  condition. 
He  realized  the  fact  that  though  he  was  free  he 
was  more  helpless  than  any  slave.  Having  no 
owner,  every  man  was  his  master.  He  knew 
that  he  was  the  object  of  suspicion,  and  there 
fore  all  his  slender  resources  (ah!  how  pitifully 
slender  they  were!)  were  devoted  to  winning, 
not  kindness  and  appreciation,  but  toleration; 
all  his  efforts  were  in  the  direction  of  mitigating 
the  circumstances  that  tended  to  make  his  con 
dition  so  much  worse  than  that  of  the  negroes 


And  the  Rest  of  the  World  13 

around  him — negroes  who  had  friends  because 
they  had  masters. 

So  far  as  his  own  race  was  concerned,  Free 
Joe  was  an  exile.  If  the  slaves  secretly  envied 
him  his  freedom  (which  is  to  be  doubted,  con 
sidering  his  miserable  condition),  they  openly 
despised  him,  and  lost  no  opportunity  to  treat 
him  with  contumely.  Perhaps  this  was  in  some 
measure  the  result  of  the  attitude  which  Free 
Joe  chose  to  maintain  toward  them.  No  doubt 
his  instinct  taught  him  that  to  hold  himself  aloof 
from  the  slaves  would  be  to  invite  from  the 
whites  the  toleration  which  he  coveted,  and 
without  which  even  his  miserable  condition 
would  be  rendered  more  miserable  still. 

His  greatest  trouble  was  the  fact  that  he  was 
not  allowed  to  visit  his  wife ;  but  he  soon  found 
a  way  out  of  his  difficulty.  After  he  had  been 
ordered  away  from  the  Calderwood  place,  he 
,was  in  the  habit  of  wandering  as  far  in  that 
direction  as  prudence  would  permit.  Near  the 
Calderwood  place,  but  not  on  Calderwood's 
land,  lived  an  old  man  named  Micajah  Staley 
and  his  sister  Becky  Staley.  These  people  were 


14  Free  Joe 

old  and  very  poor.  Old  Micajah  had  a  palsied 
arm  and  hand;  but,  in  spite  of  this,  he  managed 
to  earn  a  precarious  living  with  his  turning- 
lathe. 

When  he  was  a  slave  Free  Joe  would  have 
scorned  these  representatives  of  a  class  known  as 
poor  white  trash,  but  now  he  found  them  sym 
pathetic  and  helpful  in  various  ways.  From  the 
back  door  of  their  cabin  he  could  hear  the  Cal- 
derwood  negroes  singing  at  night,  and  he  some 
times  fancied  he  could  distinguish  Lucinda's 
shrill  treble  rising  above  the  other  voices.  A 
large  poplar  grew  in  the  woods  some  distance 
from  the  Staley  cabin,  and  at  the  foot  of  this 
tree  Free  Joe  would  sit  for  hours  with  his  face 
turned  toward  Calderwood's.  His  little  dog 
Dan  would  curl  up  in  the  leaves  near  by,  and 
the  two  seemed  to  be  as  comfortable  as  possible. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  Free  Joe,  sitting  at 
the  foot  of  this  friendly  poplar,  fell  asleep. 
How  long  he  slept,  he  could  not  tell ;  but  when 
he  awoke  little  Dan  was  licking  his  face,  the 
moon  was  shining  brightly,  and  Lucinda  his 
wife  stood  before  him  laughing.  The  dog,  see- 


And  the  Rest  of  the  World  i$ 

ing  that  Free  Joe  was  asleep,  had  grown  some 
what  impatient,  and  he  concluded  to  make  an 
excursion  to  the  Calderwood  place  on  his  own 
account.  Lucinda  was  inclined  to  give  the  in 
cident  a  twist  in  the  direction  of  superstition. 

"I  'uz  settn'  down  front  er  de  fireplace,"  she 
said,  "cookin'  me  some  meat,  w'en  all  of  a  sud 
den  I  year  sumpin  at  de  do' — scratch,  scratch. 
I  tuck'n  tu'n  de  meat  over,  en  make  out  I  ain't 
year  it.  Bimeby  it  come  dar  'gin — scratch, 
scratch.  I  up  en  open  de  do',  I  did,  en,  bless 
de  Lord!  dar  wuz  little  Dan,  en  it  look  like  ter 
me  dat  his  ribs  done  grow  terge'er.  I  gin  'im 
some  bread,  en  den,  w'en  he  start  out,  I  tuck'n 
foller  'im,  kaze,  I  say  ter  myse'f,  maybe  my 
nigger  man  mought  be  some'rs  'roun'.  Dat  ar 
little  dog  got  sense,  mon." 

Free  Joe  laughed  and  dropped  his  hand 
lightly  on  Dan's  head.  For  a  long  time  after 
that  he  had  no  difficulty  in  seeing  his  wife. 
He  had  only  to  sit  by  the  poplar  tree  until  little 
Dan  could  run  and  fetch  her.  But  after  a  while 
the  other  negroes  discovered  that  Lucinda  was 
meeting  Free  Joe  in  the  woods,  and  information 


1 6  Free  Joe 

of  the  fact  soon  reached  Calderwood's  ears. 
Calderwood  was  what  is  called  a  man  of  action. 
He  said  nothing;  but  one  day  he  put  Lucinda  in 
his  buggy,  and  carried  her  to  Macon,  sixty  miles 
away.  He  carried  her  to  Macon,  and  came  back 
without  her;  and  nobody  in  or  around  Hillsbor- 
ough,  or  in  that  section,  ever  saw  her  again. 

For  many  a  night  after  that  Free  Joe  sat  in 
the  woods  and  waited.  Little  Dan  would  run 
merrily  off  and  be  gone  a  long  time,  but  he 
always  came  back  without  Lucinda.  This  hap 
pened  over  and  over  again.  The  "willis-whis- 
tlers"  would  call  and  call,  like  fantom  huntsmen 
wandering  on  a  far-off  shore;  the  screech-owl 
would  shake  and  shiver  in  the  depths  of  the 
woods;  the  night-hawks,  sweeping  by  on  noise 
less  wings,  would  snap  their  beaks  as  though 
they  enjoyed  the  huge  joke  of  which  Free  Joe 
and  little  Dan  were  the  victims;  and  the  whip- 
poor-wills  would  cry  to  each  other  through  the 
gloom.  Each  night  seemed  to  be  lonelier  than 
the  preceding,  but  Free  Joe's  patience  was  proof 
against  loneliness.  There  came  a  time,  how 
ever,  when  little  Dan  refused  to  go  after  Lu- 


And  the  Rest  of  the  World  17 

cinda.  When  Free  Joe  motioned  him  in  the 
direction  of  the  Calderwood  place,  he  would 
simply  move  about  uneasily  and  whine;  then  he 
would  curl  up  in  the  leaves  and  make  himself 
comfortable. 

One  night,  instead  of  going  to  the  poplar  tree 
to  wait  for  Lucinda,  Free  Joe  went  to  the  Staley 
cabin,  and,  in  order  to  make  his  welcome  good, 
as  he  expressed  it,  he  carried  with  him  an  arm 
ful  of  fat-pine  splinters.  Miss  Becky  Staley  had 
a  great  reputation  in  those  parts  as  a  fortune 
teller,  and  the  schoolgirls,  as  well  as  older  peo 
ple,  often  tested  her  powers  in  this  direction, 
some  in  jest  and  some  in  earnest.  Free  Joe 
placed  his  humble  offering  of  light-wood  in  the 
chimney  corner,  and  then  seated  himself  on  the 
steps,  dropping  his  hat  on  the  ground  outside. 

"Miss  Becky,"  he  said  presently,  "whar  in  de 
name  er  gracious  you  reckon  Lucindy  is?" 

"Well,  the  Lord  he'p  the  nigger!"  exclaimed 
Miss  Becky,  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  reproduce, 
by  some  curious  agreement  of  sight  with  sound, 
her  general  aspect  of  peakedness.  "Well,  the 
Lord  he'p  the  nigger!  hain't  you  been  a-seein' 


1 8  Free  Joe 

her  all  this  blessed  time?  She's  over  at  old 
Spite  Calderwood's,  if  she's  anywheres,  I 
reckon." 

"No'm,  dat  I  ain't,  Miss  Becky.  I  ain't 
seen  Lucindy  in  now  gwine  on  mighty  nigh  a 
mont'." 

"Well,  it  hain't  a-gwine  to  hurt  you,"  said 
Miss  Becky,  somewhat  sharply.  "In  my  day  an' 
time  it  wuz  allers  took  to  be  a  bad  sign  when 
niggers  got  to  honeyin'  'roun'  an'  gwine  on." 

"Yessum,"  said  Free  Joe,  cheerfully  assenting 
to  the  proposition — "yessum,  dat's  so,  but  me  an' 
my  ole  'oman,  we  'uz  raise  terge'er,  en  dey  ain't 
bin  many  days  w'en  we  'uz'  'way  fum  one  'n'er 
like  we  is  now." 

"Maybe  she's  up  an'  took  up  wi'  some  un 
else,"  said  Micajah  Staley  from  the  corner. 
"You  know  what  the  sayin'  is:  'New  master, 
new  nigger.' ' 

"Dat's  so,  dat's  de  sayin',  but  tain't  wid  my. 
ole  'oman  like  'tis  wid  yuther  niggers.  Me  en 
her  wuz  des  natally  raise  up  terge'er.  Dey's 
lots  likelier  niggers  dan  w'at  I  is,"  said  Free  Joe, 
viewing  his  shabbiness  with  a  critical  eye,  "but 


And  the  Rest  of  the  World  19 

I  knows  Lucindy  mos'  good  ez  I  does  little  Dan 
dar — dat  I  does." 

There  was  no  reply  to  this,  and  Free  Joe 
continued: 

"Miss  Becky,  I  wish  you  please,  ma'am,  take 
en  run  yo'  kyards  en  see  sump'n  n'er  'bout  Lu 
cindy;  kaze  ef  she  sick,  I'm  gwine  dar.  Dey 
ken  take  en  take  me  up  en  gimme  a  stropping 
but  I'm  gwine  dar." 

Miss  Becky  got  her  cards,  but  first  she  picked 
up  a  cup,  in  the  bottom  of  which  were  some 
coffee-grounds.  These  she  whirled  slowly  round 
and  round,  ending  finally  by  turning  the  cup 
upside  down  on  the  hearth  and  allowing  it  to 
remain  in  that  position. 

"I'll  turn  the  cup  first,"  said  Miss  Becky, 
"and  then  I'll  run  the  cards  and  see  what  they 
say." 

As  she  shuffled  the  cards  the  fire  on  the 
hearth  burned  low,  and  in  its  fitful  light  the 
gray-haired,  thin-featured  woman  seemed  to 
deserve  the  weird  reputation  which  rumor  and 
gossip  had  given  her.  She  shuffled  the  cards 
for  some  moments,  gazing  intently  in  the  dying 


2O  Free  Joe 

fire ;  then,  throwing  a  piece  of  pine  on  the  coals, 
she  made  three  divisions  of  the  pack,  disposing 
them  about  in  her  lap.  Then  she  took  the  first 
pile,  ran  the  cards  slowly  through  her  fingers, 
and  studied  them  carefully.  To  the  first  she 
added  the  second  pile.  The  study  of  these  was 
evidently  not  satisfactory.  She  said  nothing, 
but  frowned  heavily;  and  the  frown  deepened 
as  she  added  the  rest  of  the  cards  until  the  en 
tire  fifty-two  had  passed  in  review  before  her. 
Though  she  frowned,  she  seemed  to  be  deeply 
interested.  Without  changing  the  relative  posi 
tion  of  the  cards,  she  ran  them  all  over  again. 
Then  she  threw  a  larger  piece  of  pine  on  the 
fire,  shuffled  the  cards  afresh,  divided  them  into 
three  piles,  and  subjected  them  to  the  same  care 
ful  and  critical  examination. 

"I  can't  tell  the  day  when  I've  seed  the  cards 
run  this  a-way,"  she  said  after  a  while.  "What 
is  an'  what  ain't,  I'll  never  tell  you;  but  I  know 
what  the  cards  sez." 

"Wat  does  dey  say,  Miss  Becky?"  the  negro 
inquired,  in  a  tone  the  solemnity  of  which  was 
heightened  by  its  eagerness. 


And  the  Rest  of  the  World  21 

"They  er  runnin'  quare.  These  here  that  I'm 
a-lookin'  at,"  said  Miss  Becky,  "they  stan'  for 
the  past.  Them  there,  they  er  the  present;  and 
the  t'others,  they  er  the  future.  Here's  a  bun 
dle" — tapping  the  ace  of  clubs  with  her  thumb 
— "an'  here's  a  journey  as  plain  as  the  nose  on 
a  man's  face.  Here's  Lucinda — " 

"Whar  she,  Miss  Becky?" 

"Here  she  is — the  queen  of  spades." 

Free  Joe  grinned.  The  idea  seemed  to  please 
him  immensely. 

"Well,  well,  well!"  he  exclaimed.  "Ef  dat 
don't  beat  my  time!  De  queen  er  spades!  Wen 
Lucindy  year  dat  hit'll  tickle  'er,  sho'!" 

Miss  Becky  continued  to  run  the  cards  back 
and  forth  through  her  ringers. 

"Here's  a  bundle  an'  a  journey,  and  here's 
Lucinda.  An'  here's  ole  Spite  Calderwood." 

She  held  the  cards  toward  the  negro  and 
touched  the  king  of  clubs. 

"De  Lord  he'p  my  soul!"  exclaimed  Free  Joe 
with  a  chuckle.  "De  faver's  dar.  Yesser,  dat's 
him !  Wat  de  matter  'long  wid  all  un  um,  Miss 
Becky?" 


22  Free  Joe 

The  old  woman  added  the  second  pile  of 
cards  to  the  first,  and  then  the  third,  stiK.  run 
ning  them  through  her  fingers  slowly  and  criti 
cally.  By  this  time  the  piece  of  pine  in  the 
fireplace  had  wrapped  itself  in  a  mantle  of 
flame,  illuminating  the  cabin  and  throwing  into 
strange  relief  the  figure  of  Miss  Becky  as  she 
sat  studying  the  cards.  She  frowned  ominously 
at  the  cards  and  mumbled  a  few  words  to  her 
self.  Then  she  dropped  her  hands  in  her  lap 
and  gazed  once  more  into  the  fire.  Her  shadow 
danced  and  capered  on  the  wall  and  floor  be 
hind  her,  as  if,  looking  over  her  shoulder  into 
the  future,  it  could  behold  a  rare  spectacle. 
After  a  while  she  picked  up  the  cup  that  had 
been  turned  on  the  hearth.  The  coffee-grounds, 
shaken  around,  presented  what  seemed  to  be  a 
most  intricate  map. 

"Here's  the  journey,"  said  Miss  Becky,  pres 
ently;  "here's  the  big  road,  here's  rivers  to  cross, 
here's  the  bundle  to  tote."  She  paused  and 
sighed.  "They  hain't  no  names  writ  here,  an' 
what  it  all  means  I'll  never  tell  you.  Cajy,  I 
wish  you'd  be  so  good  as  to  ban'  me  my  pipe." 


'And  the  Rest  of  the  World  23 

"I  hain't  no  hand  wi'  the  kyards,"  said  Cajy, 
as  b£  handed  the  pipe,  "but  I  reckon  I  can  patch 
out  your  misinformation,  Becky,  bekaze  the 
other  day,  whiles  I  was  a-finishin'  up  Mizzers 
Perdue's  rollin'-pin,  I  hearn  a  rattlin'  in  the 
road.  I  looked  out,  an'  Spite  Calderwood  was 
a-drivin'  by  in  his  buggy,  an'  thar  sot  Lucin'da 
by  him.  It'd  in-about  drapt  out  er  my  min'." 

Free  Joe  sat  on  the  door-sill  and  fumbled  at 
his  hat,  flinging  it  from  one  hand  to  the  other. 

"You  ain't  see  um  gwine  back,  is  you,  Mars 
Cajy?"  he  asked  after  a  while. 

"Ef  they  went  back  by  this  road,"  said  Mr. 
Staley,  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  accustomed  to 
weigh  well  his  words,  "it  must  'a'  bin  endurin' 
of  the  time  whiles  I  was  asleep,  bekaze  I  hain't 
bin  no  furder  from  my  shop  than  to  yon  bed." 

"Well,  sir!"  exclaimed  Free  Joe  in  an  awed 
tone,  which  Mr.  Staley  seemed  to  regard  as  a 
tribute  to  his  extraordinary  powers  of  statement. 

"Ef  it's  my  beliefs  you  want,"  continued  the 
old  man,  "I'll  pitch  'em  at  you  fair  and  free. 
My  beliefs  is  that  Spite  Calderwood  is  gone  an' 
took  Lucindy  outen  the  county.  Bless  your 


24  Free  Joe 

heart  and  soul!  when  Spite  Calderwood  meets 
the  Old  Boy  in  the  road  they'll  be  a  tuiyible 
scuffle.  You  mark  what  I  tell  you." 

Free  Joe,  still  fumbling  with  his  hat,  rose  and 
leaned  against  the  door-facing.  He  seemed  to 
be  embarrassed.  Presently  he  said: 

"I  speck  I  better  be  gittin'  'long.  Nex'  time 
I  see  Lucindy,  I'm  gwine  tell  'er  w'at  Miss 
Becky  say  'bout  de  queen  er  spades — dat  I  is. 
Ef  dat  don't  tickle  'er,  dey  ain't  no  nigger  'oman 
never  bin  tickle'." 

He  paused  a  moment,  as  though  waiting  for 
some  remark  or  comment,  some  confirmation  of 
misfortune,  or,  at  the  very  least,  some  endorse 
ment  of  his  suggestion  that  Lucinda  would  be 
greatly  pleased  to  know  that  she  had  figured  as 
the  queen  of  spades;  but  neither  Miss  Becky  nor 
her  brother  said  anything. 

"One  minnit  ridin'  in  the  buggy  'longside  er 
Mars  Spite,  en  de  nex'  highfalutin'  'roun'  play- 
in'  de  queen  er  spades.  Mon,  deze  yer  nigger 
gals  gittin'  up  in  de  pictur's;  dey  sholy  is." 

With  a  brief  "Good  night,  Miss  Becky,  Mars 
Cajy,"  Free  Joe  went  out  into  the  darkness,  fol- 


And  the  Rest  of  the  World  25 

lowed  by  little  Dan.  He  made  his  way  to  the 
poplar,  where  Lucinda  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
meeting  him,  and  sat  down.  He  sat  there  a  long 
time;  he  sat  there  until  little  Dan,  growing  rest 
less,  trotted  off  in  the  direction  of  the  Calder- 
wood  place.  Dozing  against  the  poplar,  in  the 
gray  dawn  of  the  morning,  Free  Joe  heard  Spite 
Calderwood's  fox-hounds  in  full  cry  a  mile 
away. 

"Shool"  he  exclaimed,  scratching  his  head, 
and  laughing  to  himself,  "dem  ar  dogs  is  des 
a-warmin'  dat  old  fox  up." 

But  it  was  Dan  the  hounds  were  after, 
and  the  little  dog  came  back  no  more.  Free 
Joe  waited  and  waited,  until  he  grew  tired  of 
waiting.  He  went  back  the  next  night  and 
waited,  and  for  many  nights  thereafter.  His 
waiting  was  in  vain,  and  yet  he  never  regarded 
it  as  in  vain.  Careless  and  shabby  as  he  was, 
Free  Joe  was  thoughtful  enough  to  have  his 
theory.  He  was  convinced  that  little  Dan  had 
found  Lucinda,  and  that  some  night  when  the 
moon  was  shining  brightly  through  the  trees, 
the  dog  would  rouse  him  from  his  dreams  as  he 

VOL.  3  2 


26  Free  Joe 

sat  sleeping  at  the  foot  of  the  poplar  tree,  and 
he  would  open  his  eyes  and  behold  Lucinda 
standing  over  him,  laughing  merrily  as  of  old; 
and  then  he  thought  what  fun  they  would  have 
about  the  queen  of  spades. 

How  many  long  nights  Free  Joe  waited  at 
the  foot  of  the  poplar  tree  for  Lucinda  and  little 
Dan  no  one  can  ever  know.  He  kept  no  account 
of  them,  and  they  were  not  recorded  by  Micajah 
Staley  nor  by  Miss  Becky.  The  season  ran  into 
summer  and  then  into  fall.  One  night  he  went 
to  the  Staley  cabin,  cut  the  two  old  people  an 
armful  of  wood,  and  seated  himself  on  the  door 
steps,  where  he  rested.  He  was  always  thank 
ful — and  proud,  as  it  seemed — when  Miss  Becky 
gave  him  a  cup  of  coffee,  which  she  was  some 
times  thoughtful  enough  to  do.  He  was  espe 
cially  thankful  on  this  particular  night. 

"You  er  still  layin'  off  for  to  strike  up  wi'  Lu- 
cindy  out  thar  in  the  woods,  I  reckon,"  said 
Micajah  Staley,  smiling  grimly.  The  situation 
was  not  without  its  humorous  aspects. 

"Oh,  dey  er  comin',  Mars  Cajy,  dey  er  comin', 
sho,"  Free  Joe  replied.  "I  boun'  you  dey'll 


'And  the  Rest  of  the  World  27 

come;  en  w'en  dey  does  come,  I'll  des  take  en 
fetch  um  yer,  whar  you  kin  see  um  wid  you  own 
eyes,  you  en  Miss  Becky." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Staley,  with  a  quick  and  em 
phatic  gesture  of  disapproval.  "Don't!  don't 
fetch  'em  anywheres.  Stay  right  wi'  'em  as  long 
as  may  be." 

Free  Joe  chuckled,  and  slipped  away  into  the 
night,  while  the  two  old  people  sat  gazing  in 
the  fire.  Finally  Micajah  spoke. 

"Look  at  that  nigger;  look  at  'im.  He's 
pine-blank  as  happy  now  as  a  killdee  by  a 
mill-race.  You  can't  faze  'em.  I'd  in- 
about  give  up  my  t'other  hand  ef  I  could 
stan'  flat-footed,  an'  grin  at  trouble  like  that 
there  nigger." 

"Niggers  is  niggers,"  said  Miss  Becky,  smil 
ing  grimly,  "an'  you  can't  rub  it  out;  yit  I  lay 
I've  seed  a  heap  of  white  people  lots  meaner'n 
Free  Joe.  He  grins — an'  that's  nigger — but 
I've  ketched  his  under  jaw  a-tremblin'  when 
Lucindy's  name  uz  brung  up.  An'  I  tell  you," 
she  went  on,  bridling  up  a  little,  and  speaking 
with  almost  fierce  emphasis,  "the  Old  Boy's 


28  Free  Joe 

done  sharpened  his  claws  for  Spite  Calderwood. 
You'll  see  it." 

"Me,  Rebecca?"  said  Mr.  Staley,  hugging  his 
palsied  arm;  "me?  I  hope  not." 

"Well,  you'll  know  it  then,"  said  Miss 
Becky,  laughing  heartily  at  her  brother's  look 
of  alarm. 

The  next  morning  Micajah  Staley  had  occa 
sion  to  go  into  the  woods  after  a  piece  of  timber. 
He  saw  Free  Joe  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  poplar, 
and  the  sight  vexed  him  somewhat. 

"Git  up  from  there,"  he  cried,  "an'  go  an'  arn 
your  livin'.  A  mighty  purty  pass  it's  come  to, 
when  great  big  buck  niggers  can  lie  a-snorin'  in 
the  woods  all  day,  when  t'other  folks  is  got  to 
be  up  an'  a-gwine.  Git  up  from  there!" 

Receiving  no  response,  Mr.  Staley  went  to 
Free  Joe,  and  shook  him  by  the  shoulder;  but 
the  negro  made  no  response.  He  was  dead. 
His  hat  was  off,  his  head  was  bent,  and  a  smile 
was  on  his  face.  It  was  as  if  he  had  bowed  and 
smiled  when  death  stood  before  him,  humble  to 
the  last.  His  clothes  were  ragged;  his  hands 
were  rough  and  callous;  his  shoes  were  literally 


And  the  Rest  of  the  World  29 

tied  together  with  strings;  he  was  shabby  in  the 
extreme.  A  passer-by,  glancing  at  him,  could 
have  no  idea  that  such  a  humble  creature  had 
been  summoned  as  a  witness  before  the  Lord 
God  of  Hosts. 


LITTLE    COMPTON 

VERY  few  Southern  country  towns  have  been 
more  profitably  influenced  by  the  new  order  of 
things  than  Hillsborough  in  Middle  Georgia. 
At  various  intervals  since  the  war  it  has  had 
what  the  local  weekly  calls  "a  business  boom." 
The  old  tavern  has  been  torn  down,  and  in  its 
place  stands  a  new  three-story  brick  hotel,  man 
aged  by  a  very  brisk  young  man,  who  is  shrewd 
enough  to  advertise  in  the  newspapers  of  the 
neighboring  towns  that  he  has  "special  accom 
modations  and  special  rates  for  commercial 
travelers."  Although  Hillsborough  is  compara 
tively  a  small  town,  it  is  the  centre  of  a  very  pro 
ductive  region,  and  its  trade  is  somewhat  impor 
tant.  Consequently,  the  commercial  travelers, 
with  characteristic  energy,  lose  no  opportunity 
of  taking  advantage  of  the  hospitable  invitation 
of  the  landlord  of  the  Hillsborough  hotel. 

30 


Little   Compton  31 

Not  many  years  ago  a  representative  of  this 
class  visited  the  old  town.  He  was  from  the 
North,  and,  being  much  interested  in  what  he 
saw,  was  duly  inquisitive.  Among  other  things 
that  attracted  his  attention  was  a  little  one- 
armed  man  who  seemed  to  be  the  life  of  the 
place.  He  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere; 
and  wherever  he  went  the  atmosphere  seemed 
to  lighten  and  brighten.  Sometimes  he  was 
flying  around  town  in  a  buggy;  at  such  times  he 
was  driven  by  a  sweet-faced  lady,  whose  smiling 
air  of  proprietorship  proclaimed  her  to  be  his 
wife :  but  more  often  he  was  on  foot.  His  cheer 
fulness  and  good  humor  were  infectious.  The 
old  men  sitting  at  Perdue's  Corner,  where  they 
had  been  gathering  for  forty  years  and  more, 
looked  up  and  laughed  as  he  passed;  the  ladies 
shopping  in  the  streets  paused  to  chat  with  him; 
and  even  the  dry-goods  clerks  and  lawyers,  play 
ing  chess  or  draughts  under  the  China  trees  that 
shaded  the  sidewalks,  were  willing  to  be  inter 
rupted  long  enough  to  exchange  jokes  with  him. 

"Rather  a  lively  chap  that,"  said  the  observ 
ant  commercial  traveler. 


32  Free  Joe 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  won't  find  no  livelier  in 
these  diggin's,"  replied  the  landlord,  to  whom 
the  remark  was  addressed.  There  was  a  sug 
gestion  of  suppressed  local  pride  in  his  tones. 
"He's  a  little  chunk  of  a  man,  but  he's  monst'us 
peart." 

"A  colonel,  I  guess,"  said  the  stranger, 
smiling. 

"Oh,  no,"  the  other  rejoined.  "He  ain't  no 
colonel,  but  he'd  'a'  made  a  prime  one.  It's 
mighty  curious  to  me,"  he  went  on,  "that  them 
Yankees  up  there  didn't  make  him  one." 

"The  Yankees?"  inquired  the  commercial 
traveler. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  the  landlord.  "He's  a  Yan 
kee;  and  that  lady  you  seen  drivin'  him  around, 
she's  a  Yankee.  He  courted  her  here  and  he 
married  her  here.  Major  Jimmy  Bass  wanted 
him  to  marry  her  in  his  house,  but  Captain  Jack 
Walthall  put  his  foot  down  and  said  the  weddin' 
had  to  be  in  his  house;  and  there's  where  it  was, 
in  that  big  white  house  over  yander  with  the 
hip  roof.  Yes,  sir." 

"Oh,"  said  the  commercial  traveler,  with  a 


Little   Compton  33 

cynical  smile,  "he  stayed  down  here  to  keep  out 
of  the  army.  He  was  a  lucky  fellow." 

"Well,  I  reckon  he  was  lucky  not  to  get 
killed,"  said  the  landlord,  laughing.  "He 
fought  with  the  Yankees,  and  they  do  say  that 
Little  Compton  was  a  rattler." 

The  commercial  traveler  gave  a  long,  low 
whistle,  expressive  of  his  profound  astonish 
ment.  And  yet,  under  all  the  circumstances, 
there  was  nothing  to  create  astonishment.  The 
lively  little  man  had  a  history. 

Among  the  genial  and  popular  citizens  of 
Hillsborough,  in  the  days  before  the  war,  none 
were  more  genial  or  more  popular  than  Little 
Compton.  He  was  popular  with  all  classes, 
with  old  and  with  young,  with  whites  and  with 
blacks.  He  was  sober,  discreet,  sympathetic, 
and  generous.  He  was  neither  handsome  nor 
magnetic.  He  was  awkward  and  somewhat 
bashful,  but  his  manners  and  his  conversation 
had  the  rare  merit  of  spontaneity.  His  sallow 
face  was  unrelieved  by  either  mustache  or 
whiskers,  and  his  eyes  were  black  and  very 
small,  but  they  glistened  with  good-humor  and 


34  Free  Joe 

sociability.  He  was  somewhat  small  in  stature, 
and  for  that  reason  the  young  men  about  Hills- 
borough  had  given  him  the  name  of  Little 
Compton. 

Little  Compton's  introduction  to  Hillsbor- 
ough  was  not  wholly  without  suggestive  inci 
dents.  He  made  his  appearance  there  in  1850, 
and  opened  a  small  grocery  store.  Thereupon 
the  young  men  of  the  town,  with  nothing  better 
to  do  than  to  seek  such  amusement  as  they  could 
find  in  so  small  a  community,  promptly  pro 
ceeded  to  make  him  the  victim  of  their  pranks 
and  practical  jokes.  Little  Compton's  forbear 
ance  was  wonderful.  He  laughed  heartily  when 
he  found  his  modest  signboard  hanging  over  an 
adjacent  barroom,  and  smiled  good-humoredly 
when  he  found  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  his  door 
barricaded  with  barrels  and  dry-goods  boxes. 
An  impatient  man  would  have  looked  on  these 
things  as  in  the  nature  of  indignities,  But  Little 
Compton  was  not  an  impatient  man. 

This  went  on  at  odd  intervals,  until  at  last 
the  fun-loving  young  men  began  to  appreciate 
Little  Compton's  admirable  temper;  and  then 


Little  Compton  35 

for  a  season  they  played  their  jokes  on  other 
citizens,  leaving  Little  Compton  entirely  unmo 
lested.  These  young  men  were  boisterous,  but 
good-natured,  and  they  had  their  own  ideas  of 
what  constituted  fair  play.  They  were  ready 
to  fight  or  to  have  fun,  but  in  neither  case  would 
.hey  willingly  take  what  they  considered  a  mean 
advantage  of  a  man. 

By  degrees  they  warmed  to  Little  Compton. 
His  gentleness  won  upon  them;  his  patient 
good-humor  attracted  them.  Without  taking 
account  of  the  matter,  the  most  of  them  became 
his  fiiends.  This  was  demonstrated  one  day 
when  one  of  the  Pulliam  boys  from  Jasper 
County  made  some  slurring  remark  about  "the 
little  Yankee."  As  Pulliam  was  somewhat  in 
his  cups,  no  attention  was  paid  to  his  remark; 
whereupon  he  followed  it  up  with  others  of  a 
more  seriously  abusive  character.  Little  Comp 
ton  was  waiting  on  a  customer;  but  Pulliam  was 
standing  in  front  of  his  door,  and  he  could  not 
fail  to  hear  the  abuse.  Young  Jack  Walthall 
was  sitting  in  a  chair  near  the  door,  whittling 
a  piece  of  white  pine.  He  put  his  knife  in  his 


36  Free  Joe 

pocket,  and,  whistling  softly,  looked  at  Little 
Compton  curiously.  Then  he  walked  to  where 
Pulliam  was  standing. 

"If  I  were  you,  Pulliam,"  he  said,  "and 
wanted  to  abuse  anybody,  I'd  pick  out  a  bigger 
man  than  that." 

"I  don't  see  anybody,"  said  Pulliam. 

"Well,  d-  -  you!"  exclaimed  Walthall,  "if 
you  are  that  blind,  I'll  open  your  eyes  for  you!" 

Whereupon  he  knocked  Pulliam  down.  At 
this  Little  Compton  ran  out  excitedly,  and  it 
was  the  impression  of  the  spectators  that  he  in 
tended  to  attack  the  man  who  had  been  abusing 
him;  but,  instead  of  that,  he  knelt  over  the  pros 
trate  bully,  wiped  the  blood  from  his  eyes,  and 
finally  succeeded  in  getting  him  to  his  feet. 
Then  Little  Compton  assisted  him  into  the  store, 
placed  him  in  a  chair,  and  proceeded  to  ban 
dage  his  wounded  eye.  Walthall,  looking  on 
with  an  air  of  supreme  indifference,  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  astonishment,  and  sauntered 
carelessly  away. 

Sauntering  back  an  hour  or  so  afterward,  he 
found  that  Pulliam  was  still  in  Little  Compton's 


Little  Compton  37 

store.  He  would  have  passed  on,  but  Little 
Compton  called  to  him.  He  went  in  prepared 
to  be  attacked,  for  he  knew  Pulliam  to  be  one 
of  the  most  dangerous  men  in  that  region,  and 
the  most  revengeful ;  but,  instead  of  making  an 
attack,  Pulliam  offered  his  hand. 

"Let's  call  it  square,  Jack.  Your  mother  and 
my  father  are  blood  cousins,  and  I  don't  want 
any  bad  feelings  to  grow  out  of  this  racket.  I've 
apologized  to  Mr.  Compton  here,  and  now  I'm 
ready  to  apologize  to  you." 

Walthall  looked  at  Pulliam  and  at  his  prof 
fered  hand,  and  then  looked  at  Little  Compton. 
The  latter  was  smiling  pleasantly.  This  ap 
peared  to  be  satisfactory,  and  Walthall  seized 
his  kinsman's  hand,  and  exclaimed: 

"Well,  by  George,  Miles  Pulliam!  if  you've 
apologized  to  Little  Compton,  then  it's  my  turn 
to  apologize  to  you.  Maybe  I  was  too  quick 
with  my  hands,  but  that  chap  there  is  such  a 

d clever  little  rascal  that  it  works  me  up  to 

see  anybody  pester  him." 

"Why,  Jack,"  said  Compton,  his  little  eyes 
glistening,  "I'm  not  such  a  scrap  as  you  make 


38  Free  Joe 

out.    It's  just  your  temper,  Jack.    Your  temper 
runs  clean  away  with  your  judgment." 

"My  temper!  Why,  good  Lord,  man!  don't 
I  just  sit  right  down,  and  let  folks  run  over  me 
whenever  they  want  to?  Would  I  have  done 
anything  if  Miles  Pulliam  had  abused  me?" 

"Why,  the  gilded  Queen  of  Sheba!"  ex 
claimed  Miles  Pulliam,  laughing  loudly,  in 
spite  of  his  bruises;  "only  last  sale  day  you 
mighty  nigh  jolted  the  life  out  of  Bill-Tom 
Saunders,  with  the  big  end  of  a  hickory  stick." 

"That's  so,"  said  Walthall  reflectively;  "but 
did  I  follow  him  up  to  do  it?  Wasn't  he  dog 
ging  after  me  all  day,  and  strutting  around 
bragging  about  what  he  was  going  to  do? 
Didn't  I  play  the  little  stray  lamb  till  he  rubbed 
his  fist  in  my  face?" 

The  others  laughed.  They  knew  that  Jack 
Walthall  wasn't  at  all  lamblike  in  his  disposi 
tion.  He  was  tall  and  strong  and  handsome, 
with  pale  classic  features,  jet-black  curling 
hair,  and  beautiful  white  hands  that  never 
knew  what  labor  was.  He  was  something  of 
a  dandy  in  Hillsborough,  but  in  a  large,  manly, 


Little  Compton  39 

generous  way.  With  his  perfect  manners, 
stately  and  stiff,  or  genial  and  engaging,  as 
occasion  might  demand,  Mr.  Walthall  was  just 
such  a  romantic  figure  as  one  reads  about  in 
books,  or  as  one  expects  to  see  step  from  behind 
the  wings  of  the  stage  with  a  guitar  or  a  long 
dagger.  Indeed,  he  was  the  veritable  original 
of  Cyrille  Brandon,  the  hero  of  Miss  Amelia 
Baxter's  elegant  novel  entitled  "The  Haunted 
Manor;  or,  Souvenirs  of  the  Sunny  Southland." 
If  those  who  are  fortunate  enough  to  possess  a 
copy  of  this  graphic  book,  which  was  printed  in 
Charleston  for  the  author,  will  turn  to  the  de 
scription  of  Cyrille  Brandon,  they  will  get  a 
much  better  idea  of  Mr.  Walthall  than  they  can 
hope  to  get  in  this  brief  and  imperfect  chron 
icle.  It  is  true,  the  picture  there  drawn  is 
somewhat  exaggerated  to  suit  the  purposes  of 
fictive  art,  but  it  shows  perfectly  the  serious 
impression  Mr.  Walthall  made  on  the  ladies 
who  were  his  contemporaries. 

It  is  only  fair  to  say,  however,  that  the  real 
Mr.  Walthall  was  altogether  different  from  the 
ideal  Cyrille  Brandon  of  Miss  Baxter's  power- 


4-O  Free  Joe 

fully  written  book.  He  was  by  no  means  igno 
rant  of  the  impression  he  made  on  the  fair  sex, 
and  he  was  somewhat  proud  of  it;  but  he  had 
no  romantic  ideas  of  his  own.  He  was,  in  fact, 
a  very  practical  young  man.  When  the  Wal- 
thall  estate,  composed  of  thousands  of  acres  of 
land  and  several  hundred  healthy,  well-fed  ne 
groes,  was  divided  up,  he  chose  to  take  his  por 
tion  in  money;  and  this  he  loaned  out  at  a  fair 
interest  to  those  who  were  in  need  of  ready  cash. 
This  gave  him  large  leisure;  and,  as  was  the 
custom  among  the  young  men  of  leisure,  he 
gambled  a  little  when  the  humor  was  on  him, 
having  the  judgment  and  the  nerve  to  make  the 
game  of  poker  exceedingly  interesting  to  those 
who  sat  with  him  at  table. 

No  one  could  ever  explain  why  the  handsome 
and  gallant  Jack  Walthall  should  go  so  far 
as  to  stand  between  his  own  cousin  and  Little 
Compton;  indeed,  no  one  tried  to  explain  it. 
The  fact  was  accepted  for  what  it  was  worth, 
and  it  was  a  great  deal  to  Little  Compton  in 
a  social  and  business  way.  After  the  row  which 
has  just  been  described, 'Mr.  Walthall  was  usu- 


Little  Compton  41 

ally  to  be  found  at  Compton's  store — in  the 
summer  sitting  in  front  of  the  door  under 
the  grateful  shade  of  the  China  trees,  and  in 
the  winter  sitting  by  the  comfortable  fire  that 
Compton  kept  burning  in  his  back  room.  As 
Mr.  Walthall  was  the  recognized  leader  of  the 
young  men,  Little  Compton's  store  soon  became 
the  headquarters  for  all  of  them.  They  met 
there,  and  they  made  themselves  at  home  there, 
introducing  their  affable  host  to  many  queer 
antics  and  capers  peculiar  to  the  youth  of  that 
day  and  time,  and  to  the  social  organism  of 
which  that  youth  was  the  outcome. 

That  Little  Compton  enjoyed  their  company 
is  certain;  but  it  is  doubtful  if  he  entered 
heartily  into  the  plans  of  their  escapades,  which 
they  freely  discussed  around  his  hearth.  Per 
haps  it  was  because  he  had  outlived  the  folly 
of  youth.  Though  his  face  was  smooth  and 
round,  and  his  eye  bright,  Little  Compton  bore 
the  marks  of  maturity  and  experience.  He  used 
to  laugh,  and  say  that  he  was  born  in  New  Jer 
sey,  and  died  there  when  he  was  young.  What 
significance  this  statement  possessed  no  one  ever 


42  Free  Joe 

knew;  probably  no  one  in  Hillsborough  cared 
to  know.  The  people  of  that  town  had  their 
own  notions  and  their  own  opinions.  They 
were  not  unduly  inquisitive,  save  when  their  in- 
quisitiveness  seemed  to  take  a  political  shape; 
and  then  it  was  somewhat  aggressive. 

There  were  a  great  many  things  in  Hillsbor 
ough  likely  to  puzzle  a  stranger.  Little  Comp- 
ton  observed  that  the  young  men,  no  matter  how 
young  they  might  be,  were  absorbed  in  politics. 
They  had  the  political  history  of  the  country 
at  their  tongues'  ends,  and  the  discussions  they 
carried  on  were  interminable.  This  interest 
extended  to  all  classes:  the  planters  discussed 
politics  with  their  overseers;  and  lawyers,  mer 
chants,  tradesmen,  and  gentlemen  of  elegant 
leisure  discussed  politics  with  each  other. 
Schoolboys  knew  all  about  the  Missouri  Com 
promise,  the  fugitive  slave  law,  and  States 
rights.  Sometimes  the  arguments  used  were 
more  substantial  than  mere  words,  but  this  was 
only  when  some  old  feud  was  back  of  the  dis 
cussion.  There  was  one  question,  as  Little 
Compton  discovered,  in  regard  to  which  there 


Little   Compton  43 

was  no  discussion.  That  question  was  slavery. 
It  loomed  up  everywhere  and  in  everything, 
and  was  the  basis  of  all  the  arguments,  and  yet 
it  was  not  discussed:  there  was  no  room  for  dis 
cussion.  There  was  but  one  idea,  and  that  was 
that  slavery  must  be  defended  at  all  hazards, 
and  against  all  enemies.  That  was  the  temper 
of  the  time,  and  Little  Compton  was  not  long 
in  discovering  that  of  all  dangerous  issues  sla 
very  was  the  most  dangerous. 

The  young  men,  in  their  free-and-easy  way, 
told  him  the  story  of  a  wayfarer  who  once  came 
through  that  region  preaching  abolitionism  to 
the  negroes.  The  negroes  themselves  betrayed 
him,  and  he  was  promptly  taken  in  charge.  His 
body  was  found  afterward  hanging  in  the  woods, 
and  he  was  buried  at  the  expense  of  the  county. 
Even  his  name  had  been  forgotten,  and  his  grave 
was  all  but  obliterated.  All  these  things  made 
an  impression  on  Little  Compton's  mind.  The 
tragedy  itself  was  recalled  by  one  of  the  pranks 
of  the  young  men,  that  was  conceived  and  car 
ried  out  under  his  eyes.  It  happened  after  he 
had  become  well  used  to  the  ways  of  Hillsbor- 


44  Free  Joe 

ough.  There  came  a  stranger  to  the  town, 
whose  queer  acts  excited  the  suspicions  of  a 
naturally  suspicious  community.  Professedly 
he  was  a  colporteur;  but,  instead  of  trying  to 
dispose  of  books  and  tracts,  of  which  he  had  a 
visible  supply,  he  devoted  himself  to  arguing 
with  the  village  politicians  under  the  shade  of 
the  trees.  It  was  observed,  also,  that  he  would 
frequently  note  down  observations  in  a  memo 
randum  book.  Just  about  that  time  the  contro 
versy  between  the  slaveholders  and  the  abolition 
ists  was  at  its  height.  John  Brown  had  made  his 
raid  on  Harper's  Ferry,  and  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  excitement  throughout  the  State.  It  was 
rumored  that  Brown  had  emissaries  traveling 
from  State  to  State,  preparing  the  negroes  for 
insurrection;  and  every  community,  even  Hills- 
borough,  was  on  the  alert,  watching,  waiting, 
suspecting. 

The  time  assuredly  was  not  auspicious  for  the 
stranger  with  the  ready  memorandum  book. 
Sitting  in  front  of  Compton's  store,  he  fell  into 
conversation  one  day  with  Uncle  Abner  Lazen- 
berry,  a  patriarch  who  lived  in  the  country,  and 


Little   Compton  45 

who  had  a  habit  of  coming  to  Hillsborough  at 
least  once  a  week  "to  talk  with  the  boys." 
Uncle  Abner  belonged  to  the  poorer  class  of 
planters;  that  is  to  say,  he  had  a  small  farm  and 
not  more  than  half  a  dozen  negroes.  But  he 
was  decidedly  popular,  and  his  conversation — 
somewhat  caustic  at  times — was  thoroughly  en 
joyed  by  the  younger  generation.  On  this  occa 
sion  he  had  been  talking  to  Jack  Walthall,  when 
the  stranger  drew  a  chair  within  hearing  dis 
tance. 

"You  take  all  your  men,"  Uncle  Abner  was 
saying — "take  all  un  'em,  but  gimme  Hennery 
Clay.  Them  abolishioners,  they  may  come  an' 
git  all  six  er  my  niggers,  if  they'll  jess  but 
lemme  keep  the  ginnywine  ole  Whig  docterin'. 
That's  me  up  an'  down — that's  wher'  your  Uncle 
Abner  Lazenberry  Stan's,  boys."  By  this  time 
the  stranger  had  taken  out  his  inevitable  note 
book,  and  Uncle  Abner  went  on:  "Yes,  siree! 
You  may  jess  mark  me  down  that  away.  'Come,' 
sez  I,  'an'  take  all  my  niggers  an'  the  ole  gray 
mar','  sez  I,  'but  lemme  keep  my  Whig  doc 
terin','  sez  I.  Lord,  I've  seed  sights  wi'  them 


46  Free  Joe 

niggers.  They  hain't  no  manner  account.  They 
won't  work,  an'  I'm  ablidge  to  feed  'em,  else 
they'd  whirl  in  an'  steal  from  the  neighbors. 
Hit's  in-about  broke  me  for  to  maintain  'em  in 
the'r  laziness.  Bless  your  soul,  little  children! 
I'm  in  a  turrible  fix — a  turrible  fix.  I'm  that 
bankruptured  that  when  I  come  to  town,  ef  I 
fine  a  thrip  in  my  britches-pocket  for  to  buy  me 
a  dram  I'm  the  happiest  mortal  in  the  county. 
Yes,  siree!  hit's  got  down  to  that." 

Here  Uncle  Abner  Lazenberry  paused  and 
eyed  the  stranger  shrewdly,  to  whom,  presently, 
he  addressed  himself  in  a  very  insinuating 
tone: 

"What  mought  be  your  name,  mister?" 

"Oh,"  said  the  stranger,  taken  somewhat 
aback  by  the  suddenness  of  the  question,  "my 
name  might  be  Jones,  but  it  happens  to  be 
Davies." 

Uncle  Abner  Lazenberry  stared  at  Davies  a 
moment  as  if  amazed,  and  then  exclaimed: 

"Jesso!  Well,  dog  my  cats  ef  times  hain't 
a-changin'  an'  a-changin'  .tell  bimeby  the  natchul 
world  an'  all  the  hummysp'eres  '11  make  the'r 


Little   Compton  47 

disappearance  een'-uppermost.  Yit,  whiles  they 
er  changin'  an'  a-disappearin',  I  hope  they'll 
leave  me  my  ole  Whig  docterin',  an'  my  name, 
which  the  fust  an'  last  un  it  is  Abner  Lazen- 
berry.  An'  more'n  that,"  the  old  man  went  on, 
with  severe  emphasis — "an'  more'n  that,  they 
hain't  never  been  a  day  sence  the  creation  of  the 
world  an'  the  hummysp'eres  when  my  name 
mought  er  oeen  anything  else  under  the  shinin' 
sun  but  Abner  Lazenberry;  an'  ef  the  time's 
done  come  when  any  mortal  name  mought  er 
been  anything  but  what  hit  reely  is,  then  we  jess 
better  turn  the  nation  an'  the  federation  over 
to  demockeracy  an'  giner'l  damnation.  Now 
that's  me,  right  pine-plank." 

By  way  of  emphasizing  his  remarks,  Uncle 
Abner  brought  the  end  of  his  hickory  cane 
down  upon  the  ground  with  a  tremendous 
thump.  The  stranger  reddened  a  little  at  the 
unexpected  criticism,  and  was  evidently  ill  at 
ease,  but  he  remarked  politely: 

"This  is  just  a  saying  I've  picked  up  some 
where  in  my  travels.  My  name  is  Davies,  and 
I  am  traveling  through  the  country  selling  a 


few  choice  books,  and  picking  up  information 
as  I  go." 

"I  know  a  mighty  heap  of  Davises,"  said 
Uncle  Abner,  "but  I  disremember  of  anybody 
named  Davies." 

"Weil,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Davies,  "the  name  is 
not  uncommon  in  my  part  of  the  country.  I 
am  from  Vermont." 

"Well,  well!"  said  Uncle  Abner,  tapping  the 
ground  thoughtfully  with  his  cane.  "A  mighty 
fur  ways  Vermont  is,  tooby  shore.  In  my  day 
an'  time  I've  seed  as  many  as  three  men  folks 
from  Vermont,  an'  one  un  'em,  he  wuz  a  wheel 
wright,  an'  one  wuz  a  tin-pedler,  an'  the  yuther 
one  wuz  a  clock-maker.  But  that  wuz  a  long 
time  ago.  How  is  the  abolishioners  gittin'  on 
up  that  away,  an'  when  in  the  name  er  patience 
is  they  a-comin'  arter  my  niggers?  Lord!  if 
them  niggers  wuz  free,  I  wouldn't  have  to  slave 
for  'em." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Davies,  "I  take  little  or 
no  interest  in  those  things.  I  have  to  make  a 
humble  living,  and  I  leave  political  questions 
to  the  politicians." 


Little  Compton  49 

The  conversation  was  carried  an  at  some 
length,  the  younger  men  joining  in  occasionally 
to  ask  questions ;  and  nothing  could  have  been 
friendlier  than  their  attitude  toward  Mr. 
Davies.  They  treated  him  with  the  greatest 
consideration.  His  manner  and  speech  were 
those  of  an  educated  man,  and  he  seemed  to 
make  himself  thoroughly  agreeable.  But  that 
night,  as  Mr.  Jack  Walthall  was  about  to  go 
to  bed,  his  body-servant,  a  negro  named  Jake, 
began  to  question  him  about  the  abolitionists. 

"What  do  you  know  about  abolitionists?"  Mr. 
Walthall  asked  with  some  degree  of  severity. 

"Nothin'  'tall,  Marse  Jack,  'cep'in'  w'at  dish 
yer  new  w'ite  man  down  dar  at  de  tavern 
say." 

"And  what  did  he  say?"  Mr.  Walthall  in 
quired. 

"I  ax  'im,  I  say,  'Marse  Boss,  is  dese  yer  bobo- 
litionists  got  horns  en  huffs?'  en  he  'low,  he  did, 
dat  dey  ain't  no  bobolitionists,  kaze  dey  er  babo- 
litionists,  an'  dey  ain't  got  needer  horns  ner 
huffs." 

"What  else  did  he  say?" 

VOL.  3  3 


50  Free  Joe 

Jake  laughed.  It  was  a  hearty  and  humorous 
laugh. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  replied,  "dat  man  des 
preached.  He  sholy  did.  He  ax  me  ef  de 
niggers'  roun'  yer  wouldn'  all  like  ter  be  free, 
en  I  tole  'im  I  don't  speck  dey  would,  kaze  all 
de  free  niggers  w'at  I  ever  seed  is  de  mos' 
no-'countes'  niggers  in  de  Ian'." 

Mr.  Walthall  dismissed  the  negro  somewhat 
curtly.  He  had  prepared  to  retire  for  the  night, 
but  apparently  thought  better  of  it,  for  he  re 
sumed  his  coat  and  vest,  and  went  out  into  the 
cool  moonlight.  He  walked  around  the  public 
square,  and  finally  perched  himself  on  the  stile 
that  led  over  the  court-house  enclosure.  He  sat 
there  a  long  time.  Little  Compton  passed  by, 
escorting  Miss  Lizzie  Fairleigh,  the  schoolmis 
tress,  home  from  some  social  gathering;  and 
finally  the  lights  in  the  village  went  out  one  by 
one — all  save  the  one  that  shone  in  the  window 
of  the  room  occupied  by  Mr.  Davies.  Watch 
ing  this  window  somewhat  closely,  Mr.  Jack 
Walthall  observed  that  there  was  movement  in 
the  room.  Shadows  played  on  the  white  win- 


Little   Compton  51 

dow-curtains — human  shadows  passing  to  and 
fro.  The  curtains,  quivering  in  the  night  wind, 
distorted  these  shadows,  and  made  confusion  of 
them;  but  the  wind  died  away  for  a  moment, 
and,  outlined  on  the  curtains,  the  patient  watcher 
saw  a  silhouette  of  Jake,  his  body-servant.  Mr. 
Walthall  beheld  the  spectacle  with  amazement. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  picture  he  saw 
was  part — the  beginning  indeed — of  a  tremen 
dous  panorama  wrhich  would  shortly  engage  the 
attention  of  the  civilized  world,  but  he  gazed 
at  it  with  a  feeling  of  vague  uneasiness. 

The  next  morning  Little  Compton  was  some 
what  surprised  at  the  absence  of  the  young  men 
who  were  in  the  habit  of  gathering  in  front  of 
his  store.  Even  Mr.  Jack  Walthall,  who  could 
be  depended  on  to  tilt  his  chair  against  the  China 
tree  and  sit  there  for  an  hour  or  more  after 
breakfast,  failed  to  put  in  an  appearance.  After 
putting  his  store  to  rights,  and  posting  up  some 
accounts  left  over  from  the  day  before,  Little 
Compton  came  out  on  the  sidewalk,  and  walked 
up  and  down  in  front  of  the  door.  He  was  in 
excellent  humor,  and  ae  he  walked  he  hummed 


52  Free  Joe 

a  tune.  He  did  not  lack  for  companionship,  for 
his  cat,  Tommy  Tinktums,  an  extraordinarily 
large  one,  followed  him  back  and  forth,  rub 
bing  against  him  and  running  between  his  legs; 
but  somehow  he  felt  lonely.  The  town  was  very 
quiet.  It  was  quiet  at  all  times,  but  on  this  par 
ticular  morning  it  seemed  to  Little  Compton 
that  there  was  less  stir  than  usual.  There  was 
no  sign  of  life  anywhere  around  the  public 
square  save  at  Perdue's  Corner.  Shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  Little  Compton  observed  a 
group  of  citizens  apparently  engaged  in  a  very 
interesting  discussion.  Among  them  he  recog 
nized  the  tall  form  of  Mr.  Jack  Walthall  and 
the  somewhat  ponderous  presence  of  Major 
Jimmy  Bass.  Little  Compton  watched  the 
group  because  he  had  nothing  better  to  do.  He 
saw  Major  Jimmy  Bass  bring  the  end  of  his 
cane  down  upon  the  ground  with  a  tremendous 
thump,  and  gesticulate  like  a  man  laboring 
under  strong  excitement;  but  this  was  nothing 
out  of  the  ordinary,  for  Major  Jimmy  had  been 
known  to  get  excited  over  the  most  trivial  dis 
cussion;  on  one  occasion,  indeed,  he  had  even 


Little   Compton  53 

mounted  a  dry-goods  box,  and,  as  the  boys  ex 
pressed  it,  "cussed  out  the  town." 

Still  watching  the  group,  Little  Compton  saw 
Mr.  Jack  Walthall  take  Buck  Ransome  by  the 
arm,  and  walk  across  the  public  square  in  the 
direction  of  the  court-house.  They  were  fol 
lowed  by  Mr.  Alvin  Cozart,  Major  Jimmy  Bass, 
and  young  Rowan  Wornum.  They  went  to  the 
court-house  stile,  and  formed  a  little  group, 
while  Mr.  Walthall  appeared  to  be  explaining 
something,  pointing  frequently  in  the  direction 
of  the  tavern.  In  a  little  while  they  returned  to 
those  they  had  left  at  Perdue's  Corner,  where 
they  were  presently  joined  by  a  number  of  other 
citizens.  Once  Little  Compton  thought  he 
would  lock  his  door  and  join  them,  but  by  the 
time  he  had  made  up  his  mind  the  group  had 
dispersed. 

A  little  later  on,  Compton's  curiosity  was 
more  than  satisfied.  One  of  the  young  men, 
Buck  Ransome,  came  into  Compton's  store, 
bringing  a  queer-looking  bundle.  Unwrapping 
it,  Mr.  Ransome  brought  to  view  two  large 
pillows.  iWhistling  a  gay  tune,  he  ran  his  keen 


54  Free  Joe 

knife  into  one  of  these,  and  felt  of  the  feathers. 
His  manner  was  that  of  an  expert.  The  exami 
nation  seemed  to  satisfy  him;  for  he  rolled  the 
pillows  into  a  bundle  again,  and  deposited  them 
in  the  back  part  of  the  store. 

"You'd  be  a  nice  housekeeper,  Buck,  if  you 
did  all  your  pillows  that  way,"  said  Compton. 

"Why,  bless  your  great  big  soul,  Compy," 
said  Mr.  Ransome,  striking  an  attitude,  "I'm 
the  finest  in  the  land." 

Just  then  Mr.  Alvin  Cozart  came  in,  bearing 
a  small  bucket,  which  he  handled  very  care 
fully.  Little  Compton  thought  he  detected  the 
odor  of  tar. 

"Stick  her  in  the  back  room  there,"  said  Mr. 
Ransome;  "she'll  keep." 

Compton  was  somewhat  mystified  by  these 
proceedings;  but  everything  was  made  clear 
when,  an  hour  later,  the  young  men  of  the  town, 
reenforced  by  Major  Jimmy  Bass,  marched  into 
his  store,  bringing  with  them  Mr.  Davies,  the 
Vermont  colporteur,  who  had  been  flourishing 
his  note-book  in  the  faces  of  the  inhabitants. 
Jake,  Mr.  Walthall's  body-servant,  was  promi- 


Little  Compton  $$ 

nent  in  the  crowd  by  reason  of  his  color  and  his 
frightened  appearance.  The  colporteur  was 
very  pale,  but  he  seemed  to  be  cool.  As  the  last 
one  filed  in,  Mr.  Walthall  stepped  to  the  front 
door  and  shut  and  locked  it. 

Compton  was  too  amazed  to  say  anything. 
The  faces  before  him,  always  so  full  of  hu 
mor  and  fun,  were  serious  enough  now.  As 
the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  the  colporteur  found 
his  voice. 

"Gentlemen!"  he  exclaimed  with  some  show 
of  indignation,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this? 
What  would  you  do?" 

"You  know  mighty  well,  sir,  what  we  ought 
to  do,"  cried  Major  Bass.  "We  ought  to  hang 
you,  you  imperdent  scounderl!  A-comin'  down 
here  a-pesterin'  an'  a-meddlin'  with  t'other  peo 
ple's  business." 

"Why,  gentlemen,"  said  Davies,  "I'm  a  peace 
able  citizen;  I  trouble  nobody.  I  am  simply 
traveling  through  the  country  selling  books  to 
those  who  are  able  to  buy,  and  giving  them 
away  to  those  who  are  not." 

"Mr.  Davies,"  said  Mr.  Jack  Walthall,  lean- 


56  Free  Joe 

ing  gracefully  against  the  counter,  "what  kind 
of  books  are  you  selling?" 

"Religious  books,  sir." 

"Jake!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Walthall  somewhat 
sharply,  so  sharply,  indeed,  that  the  negro 
jumped  as  though  he  had  been  shot.  "Jake! 
stand  out  there.  Hold  up  your  head,  sir! — Mr. 
Davies,  how  many  religious  books  did  you  sell 
to  that  nigger  there  last  night?" 

"I  sold  him  none,  sir;  I — " 

"How  many  did  you  try  to  sell  him?" 

"I  made  no  attempt  to  sell  him  any  books;  I 
knew  he  couldn't  read.  I  merely  asked  him  to 
give  me  some  information." 

Major  Jimmy  Bass  scowled  dreadfully;  but 
Mr.  Jack  Walthall  smiled  pleasantly,  and  turned 
to  the  negro. 

"Jake!  do  you  know  this  man?" 

"I  seed  'im,  Marse  Jack;  I  des  seed  'im;  dat's 
all  I  know  'bout  'im." 

"What  were  you  doing  sasshaying  around  in 
his  room  last  night?" 

Jake  scratched  his  head,  dropped  his  eyes, 
and  shuffled  about  on  the  floor  with  his  feet. 


Little   Compton      ,  57 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  him.  He  made  so  long 
a  pause  that  Alvin  Cozart  remarked  in  his 
drawling  tone: 

"Jack,  hadn't  we  better  take  this  nigger  over 
to  the  calaboose?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Mr.  Walthall  pleasantly.  "If 
I  have  to  take  him  over  there  I'll  not  bring  him 
back  in  a  hurry." 

"I  wuz  des  up  in  his  room  kaze  he  tole  me  fer 
ter  come  back  en  see  'im.  Name  er  God,  Marse 
Jack,  w'at  ail'  you  all  w'ite  folks  now?" 

"What  did  he  say  to  you?"  asked  Mr.  Wal 
thall. 

"He  ax  me  w'at  make  de  niggers  stay  in 
slave'y,"  said  the  frightened  negro;  "he  ax  me 
w'at  de  reason  dey  don't  git  free  deyse'f." 

"He  was  warm  after  information,"  Mr.  Wal 
thall  suggested. 

"Call  it  what  you  please,"  said  the  Vermont 
colporteur.  "I  asked  him  those  questions  and 
more."  He  was  pale,  but  he  no  longer  acted 
like  a  man  troubled  with  fear. 

"Oh,  we  know  that,  mister,"  said  Buck  Ran- 
some.  "We  know  what  you  come  for,  and  we 


58  Free  Joe 

know  what  you're  goin'  away  for.  We'll  excuse 
you  if  you'll  excuse  us,  and  then  there'll  be  no 
hard  feelin's — that  is,  not  many;  none  to  growl 
about. — Jake,  hand  me  that  bundle  there  on  the 
barrel,  and  fetch  that  tar-bucket. — You've  got 
the  makin'  of  a  mighty  fine  bird  in  you,  mister," 
Ransome  went  on,  addressing  the  colporteur; 
"all  you  lack's  the  feathers,  and  we've  got  oodles 
of  'em  right  here.  Now,  will  you  shuck  them 
duds?" 

For  the  first  time  the  fact  dawned  on  Little 
Compton's  mind  that  the  young  men  were  about 
to  administer  a  coat  of  tar  and  feathers  to  the 
stranger  from  Vermont;  and  he  immediately  be 
gan  to  protest. 

"Why,  Jack,"  said  he,  "what  Has  the  man 
done?" 

"Well,"  replied  Mr.  Walthall,  "you  heard 
what  the  nigger  said.  We  can't  afford  to  have 
these  abolitionists  preaching  insurrection  right 
in  our  back  yards.  We  just  can't  afford  it,  that's 
the  long  and  short  of  it.  Maybe  you  don't  un 
derstand  it;  maybe  you  don't  feel  as  we  do;  but 
that's  the  way  the  matter  stands.  We  are  in  a 


Little  Compton  59 

sort  of  a  corner,  and  we  are  compelled  to  pro 
tect  ourselves." 

"I  don't  believe  in  no  tar  and  feathers  for  this 
chap,"  remarked  Major  Jimmy  Bass,  assuming 
a  judicial  air.  "He'll  just  go  out  here  to  the 
town  branch  and  wash  'em  off,  and  then  he'll  go 

on  through  the  plantations  raising  h among 

the  niggers.  That'll  be  the  upshot  of  it — now, 
you  mark  my  words.  He  ought  to  be  hung." 

"Now,  boys,"  said  Little  Compton,  still  pro 
testing,  "what  is  the  use?  This  man  hasn't  done 
any  real  harm.  He  might  preach  insurrection 
around  here  for  a  thousand  years,  and  the  nig 
gers  wouldn't  listen  to  him.  Now,  you  know 
that  yourselves.  Turn  the  poor  devil  loose,  and 
let  him  get  out  of  town.  Why,  haven't  you  got 
any  confidence  in  the  niggers  you've  raised  your 
selves?" 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Rowan  Wornum,  in  his 
most  insinuating  tone,  "we've  got  all  the  con 
fidence  in  the  world  in  the  niggers,  but  we  can't 
afford  to  take  any  risks.  Why,  my  dear  sir,"  he 
went  on,  "if  we  let  this  chap  go,  it  won't  be 
six  months  before  the  whole  country'll  be  full 


60  Free  Joe 

of  this  kind.  Look  at  that  Harper's  Ferry 
business." 

"Well,"  said  Compton  somewhat  hotly,  "look 
at  it.  What  harm  has  been  done?  Has  there 
been  any  nigger  insurrection?" 

Jack  Walthall  laughed  good-naturedly.  "Lit 
tle  Compton  is  a  quick  talker,  boys.  Let's  give 
the  man  the  benefit  of  all  the  arguments." 

"Great  God!  You  don't  mean  to  let  this 

d rascal  go,  do  you,  Jack?"  exclaimed 

Major  Jimmy  Bass. 

"No,  no,  sweet  uncle;  but  I've  got  a  nicer 
dose  than  tar  and  feathers." 

The  result  was  that  the  stranger's  face  ancl 
hands  were  given  a  coat  of  lampblack,  his  arms 
were  tied  to  his  body,  and  a  large  placard  was 
fastened  to  his  back.  The  placard  bore  this 
inscription: 


ABOLITIONIST! 
PASS  HIM  ON,  BOYS 


Mr.  Davies  was  a  pitiful-looking  object  after 
the  young  men  had  plastered  his  face  and  hands 


Little   Compton  61 

with  lampblack  and  oil,  and  yet  his  appear 
ance  bore  a  certain  queer  relation  to  the  humor 
ous  exhibitions  one  sees  on  the  negro  minstrel 
stage.  Particularly  was  this  the  case  when  he 
smiled  at  Compton. 

"By  George,  boys!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Buck 
Ransome,  "this  chap  could  play  Old  Bob  Rid 
ley  at  the  circus." 

When  everything  was  arranged  to  suit  them, 
the  young  men  formed  a  procession,  and 
marched  the  blackened  stranger  from  Little 
Compton's  door  into  the  public  street.  Little 
Compton  seemed  to  be  very  much  interested 
in  the  proceeding.  It  was  remarked  afterward 
that  he  seemed  to  be  very  much  agitated,  and 
that  he  took  a  position  very  near  the  placarded 
abolitionist.  The  procession,  as  it  moved  up  the 
street,  attracted  considerable  attention.  Rumors 
that  an  abolitionist  was  to  be  dealt  with  had  ap 
parently  been  circulated,  and  a  majority  of  the 
male  inhabitants  of  the  town  were  out  to  view 
the  spectacle.  The  procession  passed  entirely 
around  the  public  square,  of  which  the  court 
house  was  the  centre,  and  then  across  the  square 


62  Free  Joe 

to  the  park-like  enclosure  that  surrounded  the 
temple  of  justice. 

As  the  young  men  and  their  prisoner  crossed 
this  open  space,  Major  Jimmy  Bass,  fat  as  he 
was,  grew  so  hilarious  that  he  straddled  his  cane 
as  children  do  broomsticks,  and  pretended  that 
he  had  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  hold  his  fiery 
wooden  steed.  He  waddled  and  pranced  out  in 
front  of  the  abolitionist,  and  turned  and  faced 
him,  whereat  his  steed  showed  the  most  violent 
symptoms  of  running  away.  The  young  men 
roared  with  laughter,  and  the  spectators  roared 
with  them,  and  even  the  abolitionist  laughed. 
All  laughed  but  Little  Compton.  The  proces 
sion  was  marched  to  the  court-house  enclosure, 
and  there  the  prisoner  was  made  to  stand  on  the 
sale-block  so  that  all  might  have  a  fair  view  of 
him.  He  was  kept  there  until  the  stage  was 
ready  to  go;  and  then  he  was  given  a  seat  on 
that  swaying  vehicle,  and  forwarded  to  Rock- 
ville,  where,  presumably,  the  "boys"  placed  him 
on  the  train  and  "passed  him  on"  to  the  "boys" 
in  other  towns. 

For  months  thereafter  there   was   peace   in 


Little  Compton  63 

Hillsborough,  so  far  as  the  abolitionists  were 
concerned;  and  then  came  the  secession  move 
ment.  A  majority  of  the  citizens  of  the  little 
town  were  strong  Union  men;  but  the  secession 
movement  seemed  to  take  even  the  oldest  off 
their  feet,  and  by  the  time  the  Republican  Presi 
dent  was  inaugurated,  the  Union  sentiment  that 
had  marked  Hillsborough  had  practically  dis 
appeared.  In  South  Carolina  companies  of 
minutemen  had  been  formed,  and  the  entire 
white  male  population  was  wearing  blue  cock 
ades.  With  some  modifications,  these  symptoms 
were  reproduced  in  Hillsborough.  The  modi 
fications  were  that  a  few  of  the  old  men  still 
stood  up  for  the  Union,  and  that  some  of  the 
young  men,  though  they  wore  the  blue  cockade, 
did  not  aline  themselves  with  the  minutemen. 

Little  Compton  took  no  part  in  these  proceed 
ings.  He  was  discreetly  quiet.  He  tended  his 
store,  and  smoked  his  pipe,  and  watched  events. 
One  morning  he  was  aroused  from  his  slumbers 
by  a  tremendous  crash — a  crash  that  rattled  the 
windows  of  his  store  and  shook  its  very  walls. 
He  lay  quiet  a  while,  thinking  that  a  small 


64  Free  Joe 

earthquake  had  been  turned  loose  on  the  town. 
Then  the  crash  was  repeated;  and  he  knew  that 
Hillsborough  was  firing  a  salute  from  its  little 
six-pounder,  a  relic  of  the  Revolution,  that  had 
often  served  the  purpose  of  celebrating  the  na 
tion's  birthday  in  a  noisily  becoming  manner. 

Little  Compton  arose,  and  dressed  himself, 
and  prepared  to  put  his  store  in  order.  Issuing 
forth  into  the  street,  he  saw  that  the  town  was 
in  considerable  commotion.  A  citizen  who  had 
been  in  attendance  on  the  convention  at  Mill- 
edgeville  had  arrived  during  the  night,  bring 
ing  the  information  that  the  ordinance  of  seces 
sion  had  been  adopted,  and  that  Georgia  was 
now  a  sovereign  and  independent  government. 
The  original  secessionists  were  in  high  feather, 
and  their  hilarious  enthusiasm  had  its  effect  on 
all  save  a  few  of  the  Union  men. 

Early  as  it  was,  Little  Compton  saw  two  flags 
floating  from  an  improvised  flagstaff  on  top  of 
the  court-house.  One  was  the  flag  of  the  State, 
with  its  pillars,  its  sentinel,  and  its  legend  of 
"Wisdom,  Justice,  and  Moderation."  The  de 
sign  of  the  other  was  entirely  new  to  Little 


Little   Compton  65 

Compton.  It  was  a  pine  tree  on  a  field  of  white, 
with  a  rattlesnake  coiled  at  its  roots,  and  the  in 
scription,  "DON'T  TREAD  ON  ME!"  A 
few  hours  later  Uncle  Abner  Lazenberry  made 
his  appearance  in  front  of  Compton's  store.  He 
had  just  hitched  his  horse  to  the  rack  near  the 
court-house. 

"Merciful  heavens"  he  exclaimed,  wiping  his 
read  face  with  a  red  handkerchief,  "is  the  Ole 
Boy  done  gone  an'  turned  hisself  loose?  I  hearn 
the  racket,  an'  I  sez  to  the  ole  woman,  sez  I: 
Til  fling  the  saddle  on  the  gray  mar'  an'  canter 
to  town  an'  see  what  in  the  dingnation  the  mat 
ter  is.  An'  ef  the  worl's  about  to  fetch  a  lurch, 
I'll  git  me  another  dram  an'  die  happy,'  sez  I. 
Whar's  Jack  Walthall?  He  can  tell  his  Uncle 
Abner  all  about  it." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Little  Compton,  "the  State 
has  seceded,  and  the  boys  are  celebrating." 

"I  know'd  it,"  cried  the  old  man  angrily. 
"My  min'  tole  me  so."  Then  he  turned  and 
looked  at  the  flags  flying  from  the  top  of  the 
court-house.  "Is  them  rags  the  things  they  er 
gwine  to  fly  out'n  the  Union  with?"  he  exclaimed 


66  Free  Joe 

scornfully.  "Why,  bless  your  soul  an  body, 
hit'll  take  bigger  wings  than  them!  Well,  sir, 
I'm  sick;  I  am  that  away.  I  wuz  born  in  the 
Union,  an'  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  die  thar. 
Ain't  it  mine?  ain't  it  our'n?  Jess  as  shore  as 
you're  born,  thar's  trouble  ahead — big  trouble. 
You're  from  the  North,  ain't  you?"  Uncle  Ab- 
ner  asked,  looking  curiously  at  Little  Compton. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  am,"  Compton  replied;  "that  is, 
I  am  from  New  Jersey,  but  they  say  New  Jersey 
is  out  of  the  Union." 

Uncle  Abner  did  not  respond  to  Comp- 
ton's  smile.  He  continued  to  gaze  at  him 
significantly. 

"Well,"  the  old  man  remarked  somewhat 
bluntly,  "you  better  go  back  where  you  come 
from.  You  ain't  got  nothin'  in  the  roun'  worl' 
to  do  with  all  this  hellabaloo.  When  the  pinch 
comes,  as  come  it  must,  I'm  jes  gwine  to  swap 
a  nigger  for  a  sack  er  flour  an'  settle  down ;  but 
you  had  better  go  back  where  you  come  from." 

Little  Compton  knew  the  old  man  was 
friendly;  but  his  words,  so  solemnly  and  sig 
nificantly  uttered,  made  a  deep  impression.  The 


Little  Compton  67 

words  recalled  to  Compton's  mind  the  spectacle 
of  the  man  from  Vermont  who  had  been  paraded 
through  the  streets  of  Hillsborough,  with  his 
face  blackened  and  a  placard  on  his  back.  The 
little  Jerseyman  also  recalled  other  incidents, 
some  of  them  trifling  enough,  but  all  of  them 
together  going  to  show  the  hot  temper  of  the 
people  around  him;  and  for  a  day  or  two  he 
brooded  rather  seriously  over  the  situation.  H-e 
knew  that  the  times  were  critical. 

For  several  weeks  the  excitement  in  Hills- 
borough,  as  elsewhere  in  the  South,  continued  to 
run  high.  The  blood  of  the  people  was  at  fever 
heat.  The  air  was  full  of  the  portents  and  pre 
monitions  of  war.  Drums  were  beating,  flags 
were  flying,  and  military  companies  were  parad 
ing.  Jack  Walthall  had  raised  a  company,  and 
it  had  gone  into  camp  in  an  old  field  near  the 
town.  The  tents  shone  snowy  white  in  the  sun, 
uniforms  of  the  men  were  bright  and  gay,  and 
the  boys  thought  this  was  war.  But,  instead  of 
that,  they  were  merely  enjoying  a  holiday.  The 
ladies  of  the  town  sent  them  wagon-loads  of  pro 
visions  every  day,  and  the  occasion  was  a  veri- 


68  Free  Joe 

table  picnic — a  picnic  that  some  of  the  young 
men  remembered  a  year  or  two  later  when  they 
were  trudging  ragged,  barefooted,  and  hungry, 
through  the  snow  and  slush  of  a  Virginia 
winter. 

But,  with  all  their  drilling  and  parading  in 
the  peaceful  camp  at  Hillsborough,  the  young 
men  had  many  idle  hours,  and  they  devoted 
these  to  various  forms  of  amusements.  On  one 
occasion,  after  they  had  exhausted  their  ingenu 
ity  in  search  of  entertainment,  one  of  them, 
Lieutenant  Buck  Ransome,  suggested  that  it 
might  be  interesting  to  get  up  a  joke  on  Little 
Compton. 

"But  how?"  asked  Lieutenant  Cozart. 

"Why,  the  easiest  in  the  world,"  said  Lieu 
tenant  Ransome.  "Write  him  a  note,  and  tell 
him  that  the  time  has  come  for  an  English- 
speaking  people  to  take  sides,  and  fling  in  a 
kind  of  side-wiper  about  New  Jersey." 

Captain  Jack  Walthall,  leaning  comfortably 
against  a  huge  box  that  was  supposed  to  bear 
some  relation  to  a  camp-chest,  blew  a  cloud  of 
smoke  through  his  sensitive  nostrils  and  laughed. 


Little   Compton  69 

"Why,  stuff,  boys!"  he  exclaimed  somewhat  im 
patiently,  "you  can't  scare  Little  Compton.  He's 
got  grit,  and  it's  the  right  kind  of  grit.  Why, 
I'll  tell  you  what's  a  fact — the  sand  in  that  man's 
gizzard  would  make  enough  mortar  to  build  a 
fort." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said 
Lieutenant  Ransome.  "We'll  sling  him  a  line 
or  two,  and  if  it  don't  stir  him  up,  all  right;  but 
if  it  does,  we'll  have  some  tall  fun." 

Whereupon,  Lieutenant  Ransome  fished 
around  in  the  chest,  and  drew  forth  pen  and 
ink  and  paper.  With  some  aid  from  His  brother 
officers  he  managed  to  compose  the  following: 

"LITTLE  MR.  COMPTON.  Dear  Sir— The  time 
has  arrived  when  every  man  should  show  his 
colors.  Those  who  are  not  for  us  are  against 
us.  Your  best  friends,  when  asked  where  you 
stand,  do  not  know  what  to  say.  If  you  are  for 
the  North  in  this  struggle,  your  place  is  at  the 
North.  If  you  are  for  the  South,  your  place 
is  with  those  who  are  preparing  to  defend  the 
rights  and  liberties  of  the  South.  A  word  to 
the  wise  is  sufficient.  You  will  hear  from  me 
again  in  due  time.  NEMESIS." 


7o  'Free  Joe 

This  was  duly  sealed  and  dropped  in  the 
Hillsborough  post-office,  and  Little  Compton 
received  it  the  same  afternoon.  He  smiled  as  he 
broke  the  seal,  but  ceased  to  smile  when  he  read 
the  note.  It  happened  to  fit  a  certain  vague  feel 
ing  of  uneasiness  that  possessed  him.  He  laid 
it  down  on  his  desk,  walked  up  and  down  be 
hind  his  counter,  and  then  returned  and  read 
it  again.  The  sprawling  words  seemed  to  pos 
sess  a  fascination  for  him.  He  read  them  again 
and  again,  and  turned  them  over  and  over  in  his 
mind.  It  was  characteristic  of  his  simple  nature 
that  he  never  once  attributed  the  origin  of  the 
note  to  the  humor  of  the  young  men  with  whom 
he  was  so  familiar.  He  regarded  it  seriously. 
Looking  up  from  the  note,  he  could  see  in  the 
corner  of  his  store  the  brush  and  pot  that  had 
been  used  as  arguments  on  the  Vermont  aboli 
tionist.  He  vividly  recalled  the  time  when  that 
unfortunate  person  was  brought  up  before  the 
self-constituted  tribunal  that  assembled  in  his 
store. 

Little  Compton  thought  he  had  gaged  ac 
curately  the  temper  of  the  people  about  him; 


Little  Compton  71 

and  he  had,  but  his  modesty  prevented  him  from 
accurately  gaging  or  even  thinking  about,  the 
impression  he  had  made  on  them.  The  note 
troubled  him  a  good  deal  more  than  he  would 
at  first  confess  to  himself.  He  seated  himself 
on  a  low  box  behind  his  counter  to  think  it  over, 
resting  his  face  in  his  hands.  A  little  boy  who 
wanted  to  buy  a  thrip's  worth  of  candy  went 
slowly  out  again  after  trying  in  vain  to  attract 
the  attention  of  the  hitherto  prompt  and  friendly 
storekeeper.  Tommy  Tinktums,  the  cat,  seeing 
that  his  master  was  sitting  down,  came  forward 
with  the  expectation  of  being  told  to  perform 
his  famous  "bouncing"  trick,  a  feat  that  was  at 
once  the  wonder  and  delight  of  the  youngsters 
around  Hillsborough.  But  Tommy  Tinktums 
was  not  commanded  to  bounce;  and  so  he  con 
tented  himself  with  washing  his  face,  pausing 
every  now  and  then  to  watch  his  master  with 
half-closed  eyes. 

While  sitting  thus  reflecting,  it  suddenly  oc 
curred  to  Little  Compton  that  he  had  had  very 
few  customers  during  the  past  several  days; 
and  it  seemed  to  him,  as  he  continued  to  think 


72  Free  Joe 

the  matter  over,  that  the  people,  especially  the 
young  men,  had  been  less  cordial  lately  than 
they  had  ever  been  before.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  that  the  threatened  war,  and  the  excite 
ment  of  the  period,  occupied  their  entire  atten 
tion.  He  simply  remembered  that  the  young 
men  who  had  made  his  modest  little  store  their 
headquarters  met  there  no  more.  Little  Comp- 
ton  sat  behind  his  counter  a  long  time  thinking. 
The  sun  went  down,  and  the  dusk  fell,  and  the 
night  came  on  and  found  him  there. 

After  a  while  he  lit  a  candle,  spread  the  com 
munication  out  on  his  desk,  and  read  it  again. 
To  his  mind,  there  was  no  mistaking  its  mean 
ing.  It  meant  that  he  must  either  fight  against 
the  Union,  or  array  against  himself  all  the  bit 
ter  and  aggressive  suspicion  of  the  period.  He 
sighed  heavily,  closed  his  store,  and  went  out 
into  the  darkness.  He  made  his  way  to  the  resi 
dence  of  Major  Jimmy  Bass,  where  Miss  Lizzie 
Fairleigh  boarded.  The  major  himself  was  sit 
ting  on  the  veranda;  and  he  welcomed  Little 
Compton  with  effusive  hospitality — a  hospital 
ity  that  possessed  an  old-fashioned  flavor. 


Little  Compton  73 

"I'm  mighty  glad  you  come — yes,  sir,  I  am. 
It  looks  like  the  whole  world's  out  at  the  camps, 
and  it  makes  me  feel  sorter  lonesome.  Yes,  sir; 
it  does  that.  If  I  wasn't  so  plump  I'd  be  out 
there  too.  It's  a  mighty  good  place  to  be  about 
this  time  of  the  year.  I  tell  you  what,  sir,  them 
boys  is  got  the  devil  in  'em.  Yes,  sir;  there  ain't 
no  two  ways  about  that.  When  they  turn  them 
selves  loose,  somebody  or  something  will  git 
hurt.  Now,  you  mark  what  I  tell  you.  It's  a 
tough  lot — a  mighty  tough  lot.  Lord!  wouldn't 
I  hate  to  be  a  Yankee,  and  fall  in  their  hands! 
I'd  be  glad  if  I  had  time  for  to  say  my  prayers. 
Yes,  sir;  I  would  that." 

Thus  spoke  the  cheerful  Major  Bass;  and 
every  word  he  said  seemed  to  rime  with  Little 
Compton's  own  thoughts,  and  to  confirm  the 
fears  that  had  been  aroused  by  the  note.  After 
he  had  listened  to  the  major  a  while,  Little 
Compton  asked  for  Miss  Fairleigh. 

"Oho!"  said  the  major.  Then  he  called  to  a 
negro  who  happened  to  be  passing  through  the 
hall:  "Jesse,  tell  Miss  Lizzie  that  Mr.  Comp 
ton  is  in  the  parlor."  Then  he  turned  to  Comp- 

VOL.  3  4 


74  Free  Joe 

ton.  "I  tell  you  what,  sir,  that  gal  looks  mighty 
puny.  She's  from  the  North,  and  I  reckon  she's 
homesick.  And  then  there's  all  this  talk  about 
war.  She  knows  our  boys'll  eat  the  Yankees 
plum  up,  and  I  don't  blame  her  for  being  sorter 
down-hearted.  I  wish  you'd  try  to  cheer  her 
up.  She's  a  good  gal  if  there  ever  was  one  on 
the  face  of  the  earth." 

Little  Compton  went  into  the  parlor,  where 
he  was  presently  joined  by  Miss  Fairleigh. 
They  talked  a  long  time  together,  but  what  they 
said  no  one  ever  knew.  They  conversed  in  low 
tones;  and  once  or  twice  the  hospitable  major, 
sitting  on  the  veranda,  detected  himself  trying 
to  hear  what  they  said.  He  could  see  them 
from  where  he  sat,  and  he  observed  that  both 
appeared  to  be  profoundly  dejected.  Not  once 
did  they  laugh,  or,  so  far  as  the  major  could  see, 
even  smile.  Occasionally  Little  Compton  arose 
and  walked  the  length  of  the  parlor,  but  Miss 
Fairleigh  sat  with  bowed  head.  It  may  have 
been  a  trick  of  the  lamp,  but  it  seemed  to  the 
major  that  they  were  both  very  pale. 

Finally  Little  Compton  rose  to  go.    The  major 


Little  Compton  7$ 

observed  with  a  chuckle  that  he  held  Miss  Fair- 
leigh's  hand  a  little  longer  than  was  strictly  nec 
essary  under  the  circumstances.  He  held  it  so 
long,  indeed,  that  Miss  Fairleigh  half  averted 
her  face,  but  the  major  noted  that  she  wyas  still 
pale.  "We  shall  have  a  wedding  in  this  house 
before  the  war  opens,"  he  thought  to  himself; 
and  his  mind  was  dwelling  on  such  a  contin 
gency  when  Little  Compton  came  out  on  the 
veranda. 

"Don't  tear  yourself  away  in  the  heat  of  the 
day,"  said  Major  Bass  jocularly. 

"I  must  go,"  replied  Compton.  "Good-by!" 
He  seized  the  major's  hand  and  wrung  it. 

"Good  night,"  said  the  major,  "and  God  bless 
you!" 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  But  on  Monday 
it  was  observed  that  Compton's  store  was  closed. 
Nothing  was  said  and  little  thought  of  it.  Peo 
ple's  minds  were  busy  with  other  matters.  The 
drums  were  beating,  the  flags  flying,  and  the  citi 
zen  soldiery  parading.  It  was  a  noisy  and  an 
exciting  time,  and  a  larger  store  than  Little 
Compton's  might  have  remained  closed  for  sev- 


76  Free  Joe 

eral  days  without  attracting  attention.  But  one 
day,  when  the  young  men  from  the  camp  were 
in  the  village,  it  occurred  to  them  to  inquire 
what  effect  the  anonymous  note  had  had  on  Lit 
tle  Compton;  whereupon  they  went  in  a  body 
to  his  store;  but  the  door  was  closed,  and  they 
found  it  had  been  closed  a  week  or  more.  They 
also  discovered  that  Compton  had  disappeared. 
This  had  a  very  peculiar  effect  upon  Captain 
Jack  Walthall.  He  took  off  his  uniform,  put 
on  his  citizen's  clothes,  and  proceeded  to  inves 
tigate  Compton's  disappearance.  He  sought  in 
vain  for  a  clue.  He  interested  others  to  such 
an  extent  that  a  great  many  people  in  HillsBor- 
ough  forgot  all  about  the  military  situation. 
But  there  was  no  trace  of  Little  Compton.  His 
store  was  entered  from  a  rear  window,  and 
everything  found  to  be  intact.  Nothing  had 
been  removed.  The  jars  of  striped  candy  that 
had  proved  so  attractive  to  the  youngsters  of 
Hillsborough  stood  in  long  rows  on  the  shelves, 
flanked  by  the  thousand  and  one  notions  that 
make  up  the  stock  of  a  country  grocery  store. 
Little  Compton's  disappearance  was  a  mys- 


Little   Compton  77 

terious  one,  and  under  ordinary  circumstances 
would  have  created  intense  excitement  in  the 
community;  but  at  that  particular  time  the  most 
sensational  event  would  have  seemed  tame  and 
.commonplace  alongside  the  preparations  for 
war. 

Owing  probably  to  a  lack  of  the  faculty  of 
organization  at  Richmond — a  lack  which,  if  we 
are  to  believe  the  various  historians  who  have 
tried  to  describe  and  account  for  some  of  the 
results  of  that  period,  was  the  cause  of  many 
bitter  controversies,  and  of  many  disastrous  fail 
ures  in  the  field — a  month  or  more  passed  away 
before  the  Hillsborough  company  received  or 
ders  to  go  to  the  front.  Fort  Sumter  had  been 
fired  on,  troops  from  all  parts  of  the  South  had 
gathered  in  Virginia,  and  the  war  was  begin 
ning  in  earnest.  Captain  Jack  Walthall  of  the 
Hillsborough  Guards  chafed  at  the  delay  that 
kept  his  men  resting  on  their  arms,  so  to  speak; 
but  he  had  ample  opportunity,  meanwhile,  to 
wonder  what  had  become  of  Little  Compton. 
In  his  leisure  moments  he.  often  found  himself 
sitting  on  the  dry-goods  boxes  in  the  neighbor- 


78  Free  Joe 

hood  of  Little  Compton's  store.  Sitting  thus 
one  day,  he  was  approached  by  his  body-servant. 
Jake  had  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  showed  by  his 
manner  that  he  had  something  to  say.  He 
shuffled  around,  looked  first  one  way  and  then 
another,  and  scratched  his  head. 

"Marse  Jack,"  he  began. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  said  the  other,  somewhat 
sharply. 

"Marse  Jack,  I  hope  ter  de  Lord  you  ain't 
gwine  ter  git  mad  wid  me;  yit  I  mos'  knows 
you  is,  kaze  I  oughter  done  tole  you  a  long 
time  ago." 

"You  ought  to  have  told  me  what?" 

"  'Bout  my  drivin'  yo'  hoss  en  buggy  over  ter 
Rockville  dat  time — dat  time  what  I  ain't  never 
tole  you  'bout.  But  I  'uz  mos'  'blige'  ter  do  it. 
I  'low  ter  myse'f,  I  did,  dat  I  oughter  come  tell 
you  right  den,  but  I  'uz  skeer'd  you  mought  git 
mad,  en  den  you  wuz  out  dar  at  de  camps,  'long 
wid  dem  milliumterry  folks." 

"What  have  you  got  to  tell?" 

"Well,  Marse  Jack,  des  'bout  takin'  yo'  hoss 
en  buggy.  Marse  Compton  'lowed  you  wouldn't 


Little  Campion  79 

keer,  en  w'en  he  say  dat,  I  des  went  en  hich  up 
de  hoss  en  kyar'd  'im  over  ter  Rockville." 

"What  under  heaven  did  you  want  to  go  to 
Rockville  for?" 

'Who?  me,  Marse  Jack?  'Twa'n't  me  wantec 
go.  Hit  'uz  Marse  Compton." 

"Little  Compton?"  exclaimed  Walthall. 

"Yes,  sir,  dat  ve'y  same  man." 

"What  did  you  carry  Little  Compton  to  Rock- 
viile  for?" 

"Fo'  de  Lord,  Marse  Jack,  I  dunno  w'at 
Marse  Compton  wanter  go  fer.  I  des  know'd 
I  'uz  doin'  wrong,  but  he  tuck'n  'low  dat  hit'd 
be  all  right  wid  you,  kaze  you  bin  knowin'  him 
so  monst'us  well.  En  den  he  up'n  ax  me  not  to 
tell  you  twell  he  done  plum  out'n  yearm'." 

"Didn't  he  say  anything?  Didn't  he  tell  you 
where  he  was  going?  Didn't  he  send  any  word 
back?" 

This  seemed  to  remind  Jake  of  something. 
He  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  exclaimed : 

"Well,  de  Lord  he'p  my  soul!  Ef  I  ain't  de 
beatenest  nigger  on  de  top  side  er  de  yeth! 
Marse  Compton  gun  me  a  letter,  en  I  tuck'n 


80  Free  Joe 

shove  it  un'  de  buggy  seat,  en  it's  right  dar  yit 
ef  somebody  ain't  tored  it  up." 

By  certain  well-known  signs  Jake  knew  that 
his  Marse  Jack  was  very  mad,  and  he  was  hur 
rying  out.  But  Walthall  called  him. 

"Come  here,  sirl"  The  tone  made  Jake  trem 
ble.  "Do  you  stand  up  there,  sir,  and  tell  me 
all  this,  and  think  I  am  going  to  put  up  with  it?" 

"I'm  gwine  after  dat  note,  Marse  Jack,  des 
ez  hard  ez  ever  I  kin." 

Jake  manage'd  to  find  the  note  after  some  lit 
tle  search,  and  carried  it  to  Jack  Walthall.  It 
was  crumpled  anH  soiled.  It  had  evidently 
seen  rough  service  under  the  buggy  seat.  Wal 
thall  took  it  from  the  negro,  turned  it  over  and 
looked  at  it.  It  was  sealed,  and  addressed  to 
Miss  Lizzie  Fairleigh. 

Jack  Walthall  arrayed  himself  in  his  best, 
and  made  his  way  to  Major  Jimmy  Bass's, 
where  he  inquired  for  Miss  Fairleigh.  That 
young  lady  promptly  made  her  appearance.  She 
was  pale  and  seemed  to  be  troubled.  Walthall 
explained  his  errand,  and  handed  her  the  note. 
He  thought  her  hand  trembled,  but  he  may 


Little   Compton  81 

have  been  mistaken,  as  he  afterward  confessed. 
She  read  it,  and  handed  it  to  Captain  Walthall 
with  a  vague  little  smile  that  would  have  told 
him  volumes  if  he  had  been  able  to  read  the 
feminine  mind. 

Major  Jimmy  Bass  was  a  wiser  man  than 
Walthall,  and  he  remarked  long  afterward  that 
he  knew  by  the  way  the  poor  girl  looked  that 
she  was  in  trouble,  and  it  is  not  to  be  denied, 
at  least,  it  is  not  to  be  denied  in  Hillsborough, 
where  he  was  known  and  respected,  that  Major 
Bass's  impressions  were  as  important  as  the 
average  man's  convictions.  This  is  what  Cap 
tain  Jack  Walthall  read: 

"DEAR  Miss  FAIRLEIGH — When  you  see  this 
I  shall  be  on  my  way  home.  My  eyes  have  re 
cently  been  opened  to  the  fact  that  there  is  to 
be  a  war  for  and  against  the  Union.  I  have 
strong  friendships  here,  but  I  feel  that  I  owe  a 
duty  to  the  old  flag.  When  I  bade  you  good-by 
last  night,  it  was  good-by  forever.  I  had  hoped 
-I  had  desired — to  say  more  than  I  did;  but 
perhaps  it  is  better  so.  Perhaps  it  is  better  that 


82  "Free  Joe 

I  should  carry  with  me  a  fond  dream  of  what 
might  have  been  than  to  have  been  told  by  you 
that  such  a  dream  could  never  come  true.  I 
had  intended  to  give  you  the  highest  evidence 
of  my  respect  and  esteem  that  man  can  give  to 
woman,  but  I  have  been  overruled  by  fate  or 
circumstance.  I  shall  love  you  as  long  as  I  live. 
One  thing  more:  should  you  ever  find  yourself 
in  need  of  the  services  of  a  friend — a  friend  in 
whom  you  may  place  the  most  implicit  con 
fidence — send  for  Mr.  Jack  Walthall.  Say  to 
him  that  Little  Compton  commended  you  to  his 
care  and  attention,  and  give  him  my  love." 

Walthall  drew  a  long  breath  and  threw  his 
head  back  as  he  finished  reading  this.  What 
ever  emotion  he  may  have  felt,  he  managed  to 
conceal,  but  there  was  a  little  color  in  his  usu 
ally  pale  face,  and  his  dark  eyes  shone  with  a 
new  light. 

"This  is  a  very  unfortunate  mistake,"  he  ex 
claimed.  "What  is  to  be  done?" 

Miss  Fairleigh  smiled. 

"There  is  no  mistake,  Mr.  Walthall,"  she  re- 


Little  Compton  83 

plied.  "Mr.  Compton  is  a  Northern  man,  and 
he  has  gone  to  join  the  Northern  army.  I 
think  he  is  right." 

"Well,"  said  Walthall,  "he  will  do  what  he 
thinks  is  right,  but  I  wish  he  was  here  to-night." 

"Oh,  so  do  I!"  exclaimed  Miss  Fairleigh,  and 
then  she  blushed;  seeing  which,  Mr.  Jack  Wal 
thall  drew  his  own  conclusions. 

"If  I  could  get  through  the  lines,"  she  went 
on,  "I  would  go  home."  Whereupon  Walthall 
offered  her  all  the  assistance  in  his  power,  and 
offered  to  escort  her  to  the  Potomac.  But  be 
fore  arrangements  for  the  journey  could  be 
made,  there  came  the  news  of  the  first  battle  of 
Manassas,  and  the  conflict  was  begun  in  earnest; 
so  earnest,  indeed,  that  it  changed  the  course  of 
a  great  many  lives,  and  gave  even  a  new  direc 
tion  to  American  history. 

Miss  Fairleigh's  friends  in  Hillsborough 
would  not  permit  her  to  risk  the  journey 
through  the  lines;  and  Captain  Walthall's  com 
pany  was  ordered  to  the  front,  where  the  young 
men  composing  it  entered  headlong  into  the 
hurly-burly  that  goes  by  the  name  of  war. 


84  Free  Joe 

There  was  one  little  episode  growing  out  of 
Jack  Walthall's  visit  to  Miss  Fairleigh  that 
ought  to  be  told.  When  that  young  gentleman 
bade  her  good  evening,  and  passed  out  of  the 
parlor,  Miss  Fairleigh  placed  her  hands  to  her 
face  and  fell  to  weeping,  as  women  will. 

Major  Bass,  sitting  on  the  veranda,  had  been 
an  interested  spectator  of  the  conference  in  the 
parlor,  but  it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  pantomime. 
He  could  hear  nothing  that  was  said,  but  he 
could  see  that  Miss  Fairleigh  and  Walthall  were 
both  laboring  under  some  strong  excitement. 
When,  therefore,  he  saw  Walthall  pass  hur 
riedly  out,  leaving  Miss  Fairleigh  in  tears  in 
the  parlor,  it  occurred  to  him  that,  as  the  head 
of  the  household  and  the  natural  protector  of 
the  women  under  his  roof,  he  was  bound  to  take 
some  action.  He  called  Jesse,  the  negro  house- 
servant,  who  was  on  duty  in  the  dining-room. 

"Jess!  Jess!  Oh,  Jess!"  There  was  an  insinu 
ating  sweetness  in  his  voice  as  it  echoed  through 
the  hall.  Jesse,  doubtless  recognizing  the  vel 
vety  quality  of  the  tone,  made  his  appearance 
promptly*  ujess,"  said  the  major  softly,  "I  wish 


Little   Compton  8$ 

you'd  please  fetch  me  my  shotgun.  Make  'aste, 
Jess,  and  don't  make  no  furse." 

Jesse  went  after  the  shotgun,  and  the  major 
waddled  into  the  parlor.  He  cleared  his  throat 
at  the  door,  and  Miss  Fairleigh  looked  up. 

"Miss  Lizzie,  did  Jack  Walthall  insult  you 
here  in  my  house?" 

"Insult  me,  sir!  Why,  he's  the  noblest  gen 
tleman  alive." 

The  major  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  and 
smiled. 

"Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  you  say  so!" 
he  exclaimed.  "I  couldn't  tell,  to  save  my  life, 
what  put  it  into  my  mind.  Why,  I  might  'a' 
know'd  that  Jack  Walthall  ain't  that  kind  of  a 
chap.  Lord!  I  reckon  I  must  be  getting  old  and 
weak-minded.  .Don't  cry  no  more,  honey.  Go 
right  along  and  go  to  bed."  As  he  turned  to  go 
out  of  the  parlor,  he  was  confronted  by  Jesse 
with  the  shotgun.  "Oh,  go  put  her  up,  Jess," 
he  said  apologetically;  "go  put  her  up,  boy.  I 
wanted  to  blaze  away  at  a  dog  out  there  trying 
to  scratch  under  the  palings;  but  the  dog's  done 
gone.  Go  put  her  up,  Jess." 


86  Free  Joe 

When  Jess  carried  the  gun  back,  he  remarked 
casually  to  his  mistress: 

"Miss  Sa'h,  you  better  keep  yo'  eye  on  Marse 
Maje.  He  talkin'  mighty  funny,  en  he  doin' 
mighty  quare." 

Thereafter,  for  many  a  long  day,  the  genial 
major  sat  in  his  cool  veranda,  and  thought  of 
Jack  Walthall  and  the  boys  in  Virginia.  Some 
times  between  dozes  he  would  make  his  way  to 
Perdue's  Corner,  and  discuss  the  various  cam 
paigns.  How  many  desperate  campaigns  were 
fought  on  that  Corner!  All  the  older  citizens, 
who  found  it  convenient  or  necessary  to  stay 
at  home,  had  in  them  the  instinct  and  emotions 
of  great  commanders.  They  knew  how  victory 
could  be  wrung  from  defeat,  and  how  success 
could  be  made  more  overwhelming.  At  Per 
due's  Corner,  Washington  City  was  taken  not 
less  than  a  dozen  times  a  week,  and  occasionally 
both  New  York  and  Boston  were  captured  and 
sacked.  Of  all  the  generals  who  fought  their 
battles  at  the  Corner,  Major  Jimmy  Bass  was 
the  most  energetic,  the  most  daring,  and  the 
most  skilful.  As  a  strategist  he  had  no  superior. 


Little  Compton  87 

He  had  a  way  of  illustrating  the  feasibility  of 
his  plans  by  drawing  them  in  the  sand  with  his 
cane.  Fat  as  he  was,  the  major  had  a  way  of 
"surroundering"  the  enemy  so  that  no  avenue 
was  left  for  his  escape.  At  Perdue's  Corner  he 
captured  Scott,  and  McClellan,  and  Joe  Hooker, 
and  John  Pope,  and  held  their  entire  forces  as 
prisoners  of  war. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  the  war  went  on. 
Sometimes  word  would  come  that  one  of  the 
Hillsborough  boys  had  been  shot  to  death.  Now 
and  then  one  would  come  home  with  an  arm  or 
a  leg  missing;  so  that,  before  many  months  had 
passed,  even  the  generals  conducting  their  cam 
paigns  at  Perdue's  Corner  managed  to  discover 
that  war  was  a  very  serious  business. 

It  happened  that  one  day  in  July,  Captain 
Jack  Walthall  and  his  men,  together  with  quite 
an  imposing  array  of  comrades,  were  called 
upon  to  breast  the  sultry  thunder  of  Gettysburg. 
They  bore  themselves  like  men ;  they  went  for 
ward  with  a  shout  and  a  rush,  facing  the  deadly 
slaughter  of  the  guns;  they  ran  up  the  hill  and 
to  the  rock  wall.  With  others,  Captain  Wai- 


88  Free  Joe 

thall  leaped  over  the  wall.  They  were  met  by 
a  murderous  fire  that  mowed  down  the  men  like 
grass.  The  line  in  the  rear  wavered,  fell  back, 
and  went  forward  again.  Captain  Walthall 
heard  his  name  called  in  his  front,  and  then 
some  one  cried,  "Don't  shoot!"  and  Little  Comp- 
ton,  his  face  blackened  with  powder,  and  his 
eyes  glistening  with  excitement,  rushed  into 
Walthall's  arms.  The  order  not  to  shoot — if 
it  was  an  order — came  too  late.  There  was  an 
other  volley.  As  the  Confederates  rushed  for 
ward,  the  Federal  line  retreated  a  little  way, 
and  Walthall  found  himself  surrounded  by  the 
small  remnant  of  his  men.  The  Confederates 
made  one  more  effort  to  advance,  but  it  was 
useless.  The  line  was  borne  back,  and  finally 
retreated;  but  when  it  went  down  the  slope, 
Walthall  and  Lieutenant  Ransome  had  Little 
Compton  between  them.  He  was  a  prisoner. 
Just  how  it  all  happened,  no  one  of  the  three 
could  describe,  but  Little  Compton  was  carried 
into  the  Confederate  lines.  He  was  wounded 
in  the  shoulder  and  in  the  arm,  and  the  ball  that 
shattered  his  arm  shattered  Walthall's  arm. 


Little   Compton  89 

They  were  carried  to  the  field  hospital,  where 
Walthall  insisted  that  Little  Compton's  wounds 
should  be  looked  after  first.  The  result  was  that 
Walthall  lost  his  left  arm  and  Compton  his 
right;  and  then,  when  by  some  special  interpo 
sition  of  Providence  they  escaped  gangrene  and 
other  results  of  imperfect  surgery  and  bad  nurs 
ing,  they  went  to  Richmond,  where  Walthall's 
money  and  influence  secured  them  comfortable 
quarters. 

Hillsborough  had  heard  of  all  this  in  a  vague 
way — indeed,  a  rumor  of  it  had  been  printed  in 
the  Rockville  "Vade  Mecum" — but  the  gen 
erals  and  commanders  in  consultation  at  Per- 
due's  Corner  were  astonished  one  day  when  the 
stage-coach  set  down  at  the  door  of  the  tavern 
a  tall,  one-armed  gentleman  in  gray,  and  a  short, 
one-armed  gentleman  in  blue. 

"By  the  livin'  Lord!"  exclaimed  Major  Jim- 
ray  Bass,  "if  that  ain't  Jack  Walthall!  And  you 
may  put  out  my  two  eyes  if  that  ain't  Little 
Compton!  Why,  shucks,  boys!"  he  exclaimed, 
as  he  waddled  across  the  street,  "I'd  'a'  know'd 
you  anywheres.  I'm  a  little  short-sighted,  and 


90  Free  Joe 

I'm  mighty  nigh  took  off  wi'  the  dropsy,  but  I'd 
'a'  know'd  you  anywheres." 

There  were  handshakings  and  congratulations 
from  everybody  in  the  town.  The  clerks  and  the 
merchants  deserted  their  stores  to  greet  the  new 
comers,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  general  jubilee. 
For  weeks  Captain  Jack  Walthall  was  com 
pelled  to  tell  his  Gettysburg  story  over  and 
over  again,  frequently  to  the  same  hearers;  and, 
curiously  enough,  there  was  never  a  murmur 
of  dissent  when  he  told  how  Little  Compton  had 
insisted  on  wearing  his  Federal  uniform. 

"Great  Jiminy  Craminy!"  Major  Jimmy  Bass 
would  exclaim;  "don't  we  all  know  Little 
Compton  like  a  book?  And  ain't  he  got  a  right 
to  wear  his  own  duds?" 

Rockville,  like  every  other  railroad  town  in 
the  South  at  that  period,  had  become  the  site 
of  a  Confederate  hospital;  and  sometimes  the 
hangers-on  and  convalescents  paid  brief  visits  of 
inspection  to  the  neighboring  villages.  On  one 
occasion  a  little  squad  of  them  made  their  ap 
pearance  on  the  streets  of  Hillsborough,  and 
made  a  good-natured  attempt  to  fraternize  with 


Little  Campion  91 

the  honest  citizens  who  gathered  daily  at  Per- 
due's  Corner.  While  they  were  thus  engaged, 
Little  Compton,  arrayed  in  his  blue  uniform, 
passed  down  the  street.  The  visitors  made  some 
inquiries,  and  Major  Bass  gave  them  a  very  sym 
pathetic  history  of  Little  Compton.  Evidently 
they  failed  to  appreciate  the  situation;  for  one 
of  them,  a  tall  Mississippian,  stretched  himself 
and  remarked  to  his  companions: 

"Boys,  when  we  go,  we'll  just  about  lift  that 
feller  and  take  him  along.  He  belongs  in  An- 
dersonville,  that's  where  he  belongs." 

Major  Bass  looked  at  the  tall  Mississippian 
and  smiled. 

"I  reckon  you  must  'a'  been  mighty  sick  over 
yander,"  said  the  major,  indicating  Rockville. 

"Well,  yes,"  said  the  Mississippian;  "I've  had 
a  pretty  tough  time." 

"And  you  ain't  strong  yet,"  the  major  went  on. 

"Well,  I'm  able  to  get  about  right  lively," 
said  the  other. 

"Strong  enough  to  go  to  war?" 

"Oh,  well,  no — not  just  yet." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  major  in  his  bluntest 


92  Free  Joe 

tone,  "you  better  be  mighty  keerful  of  yourself 
in  this  town.  If  you  ain't  strong  enough  to  go 
to  war,  you  better  let  Little  Compton  alone." 

The  tall  Mississippian  and  his  friends  took 
the  hint,  and  Little  Compton  continued  to  wear 
his  blue  uniform  unmolested.  About  this  time 
Atlanta  fell;  and  there  were  vague  rumors  in 
the  air,  chiefly  among  the  negroes,  that  Sher 
man's  army  would  march  down  and  capture 
Hillsborough,  which,  by  the  assembly  of  gen 
erals  at  Perdue's  Corner,  was  regarded  as  a 
strategic  point.  These  vague  rumors  proved  to 
be  correct;  and  by  the  time  the  first  frosts  fell, 
Perdue's  Corner  had  reason  to  believe  that  Gen 
eral  Sherman  was  marching  down  on  Hillsbor 
ough.  Dire  rumors  of  fire,  rapine,  and  pillage 
preceded  the  approach  of  the  Federal  army, 
and  it  may  well  be  supposed  that  these  rumors 
spread  consternation  in  the  air.  Major  Bass 
professed  to  believe  that  General  Sherman 
would  be  "surroundered"  and  captured  before 
his  troops  reached  Middle  Georgia;  but  the 
three  columns,  miles  apart,  continued  their 
march  unopposed. 


Little   Compton  93 

It  was  observed  that  during  this  period  of 
doubt,  anxiety,  and  terror,  Little  Compton  was 
on  the  alert.  He  appeared  to  be  nervous  and 
restless.  His  conduct  was  so  peculiar  that  some 
of  the  more  suspicious  citizens  of  the  region  pre 
dicted  that  he  had  been  playing  the  part  of  a 
spy,  and  that  he  was  merely  waiting  for  the 
advent  of  Sherman's  army  in  order  to  point  out 
where  his  acquaintances  had  concealed  their 
treasures. 

One  fine  morning  a  company  of  Federal 
troopers  rode  into  Hillsborough.  They  were 
met  by  Little  Compton,  who  had  borrowed 
one  of  Jack  Walthall's  horses  for  just  such  an 
occasion.  The  cavalcade  paused  in  the  public 
square,  and,  after  a  somewhat  prolonged  con 
sultation  with  Little  Compton,  rode  on  in  the 
direction  of  Rockville.  During  the  day  small 
parties  of  foragers  made  their  appearance.  Lit 
tle  Compton  had  some  trouble  with  these;  but, 
by  hurrying  hither  and  thither,  he  managed  to 
prevent  any  depredations.  He  even  succeeded 
in  convincing  the  majority  of  them  that  they 
owed  some  sort  of  respect  to-  that  small  town. 


94  Free  Joe 

There  was  one  obstinate  fellow,  however,  who 
seemed  determined  to  prosecute  his  search  for 
valuables.  He  was  a  German  who  evidently 
did  not  understand  English. 

In  the  confusion  Little  Compton  lost  sight  of 
the  German,  though  he  had  determined  to  keep 
an  eye  on  him.  It  was  not  long  before  he  heard 
of  him  again;  for  one  of  the  Walthall  negroes 
came  running  across  the  public  square,  showing 
by  voice  and  gesture  that  he  was  very  much 
alarmed. 

"Marse  Compton!  Marse  Compton!"  he 
cried,  "you  better  run  up  ter  Marse  Jack's, 
kaze  one  er  dem  mens  is  gwine  in  dar  whar 
ole  Miss  is,  en  ef  he  do  dat  he  gwine  ter  git 
hurted!" 

Little  Compton  hurried  to  the  Walthall  place, 
and  he  was  just  in  time  to  see  Jack  rushing  the 
German  down  the  wide  flight  of  steps  that  led 
to  the  veranda.  What  might  have  happened,  no 
one  can  say;  what  did  happen  may  be  briefly 
told.  The  German,  his  face  inflamed  with  pas 
sion,  had  seized  his  gun,  which  had  been  left 
outside,  and  was  aiming  at  Jack  Walthall,  who 


Little  Compton  95 

stood  on  the  steps,  cool  and  erect.  An  exclama 
tion  of  mingled  horror  and  indignation  from 
Little  Compton  attracted  the  German's  atten 
tion,  and  caused  him  to  turn  his  head.  This  de 
lay  probably  saved  Jack  Walthall's  life;  for  the 
German,  thinking  that  a  comrade  was  coming 
to  his  aid,  leveled  his  gun  again  and  fired.  But 
Little  Compton  had  seized  the  weapon  near  the 
muzzle  and  wrested  it  around.  The  bullet,  in 
stead  of  reaching  its  target,  tore  its  way  through 
Compton's  empty  sleeve.  In  another  instant  the 
German  was  covered  by  Compton's  revolver. 
The  hand  that  held  it  was  steady,  and  the  eyes 
that  glanced  along  its  shining  barrel  fairly 
blazed.  The  German  dropped  his  gun.  All 
trace  of  passion  disappeared  from  his  face;  and 
presently  seeing  that  the  crisis  had  passed,  so 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  he  wheeled  in  his 
tracks,  gravely  saluted  Little  Compton,  and 
made  off  at  a  double-quick. 

"You  mustn't  think  hard  of  the  boys,  Jack, 
on  account  of  that  chap.  They  understand  the 
whole  business,  and  they  are  going  to  take  care 
of  this  town." 


96  ^Free  'Joe 

And  they  did.  The  army  came  march 
ing  along  presently,  and  the  stragglers  found 
Hillsborough  patrolled  by  a  detachment  of 
cavalry. 

Walthall  and  Little  Compton  stood  on  the 
wide  steps,  and  reviewed  this  imposing  array  as 
it  passed  before  them.  The  tall  Confederate,  in 
his  uniform  of  gray,  rested  his  one  hand  affec 
tionately  on  the  shoulder  of  the  stout  little  man 
in  blue,  and  on  the  bosom  of  each  was  pinned  an 
empty  sleeve.  Unconsciously,  they  made  an  im 
pressive  picture. 

The  Commander,  grim,  gray,  and  resolute, 
observed  it  with  sparkling  eyes.  The  spec 
tacle  was  so  unusual — so  utterly  opposed  to 
the  logic  of  events — that  he  stopped  with  his 
staff  long  enough  to  hear  Little  Compton 
tell  his  story.  He  was  a  grizzled,  aggressive 
man,  this  Commander,  but  his  face  lighted  up 
wonderfully  at  the  recital. 

"Well,  you  know  this  sort  of  thing  doesn't 
end  the  war,  boys,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands 
with  Walthall  and  Little  Compton;  "but  I'shall 
sleep  better  to-night." 


Little  Compton  97 

Perhaps  he  did.  Perhaps  he  dreamed  that 
what  he  had  seen  and  heard  was  prophetic  of 
the  days  to  come,  when  peace  and  fraternity 
should  seize  upon  the  land,  and  bring  unity, 
happiness,  and  prosperity  to  the  people. 


VOL.  3 


AUNT    FOUNTAIN'S    PRISONER 

IT  is  curious  how  the  smallest  incident,  the 
most  unimportant  circumstance,  will  recall  old 
friends  and  old  associations.  An  old  gentle 
man,  who  is  noted  far  and  near  for  his  pro 
digious  memory  of  dates  and  events,  once  told 
me  that  his  memory,  so  astonishing  to  his  friends 
and  acquaintances,  consisted  not  so  much  in  re 
membering  names  and  dates  and  facts,  as  in  asso 
ciating  each  of  these  with  some  special  group 
of  facts  and  events;  so  that  he  always  had  at 
command  a  series  of  associations  to  which  he 
could  refer  instantly  and  confidently.  This  is 
an  explanation  of  the  system  of  employing  facts, 
but  not  of  the  method  by  which  they  are  accu 
mulated  and  stored  away. 

I  was  reminded  of  this  some  years  ago  by  a 
paragraph  in  one  of  the  county  newspapers  that 
sometimes  come  under  my  observation.  It  was 

98 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  99 

a  very  commonplace  paragraph;  indeed,  it  was 
in  the  nature  of  an  advertisement — an  announce 
ment  of  the  fact  that  orders  for  "gilt-edged 
butter"  from  the  Jersey  farm  on  the  Tomlinson 
Place  should  be  left  at  the  drugstore  in  Rock- 
ville,  where  the  first  that  came  would  be  the 
first  served.  This  businesslike  notice  was  signed 
by  Ferris  Trunion.  The  name  was  not  only  pe 
culiar,  but  new  to  me;  but  this  was  of  no  impor 
tance  at  all.  The  fact  that  struck  me  was  the 
bald  and  bold  announcement  that  the  Tomlin 
son  Place  was  the  site  and  centre  of  trading  and 
other  commercial  transactions  in  butter.  I  can 
only  imagine  what  effect  this  announcement 
would  have  had  on  my  grandmother,  who  died 
years  ago,  and  on  some  other  old  people  I  used 
to  know.  Certainly  they  would  have  been  hor 
rified;  and  no  wonder,  for  when  they  were  in 
their  prime  the  Tomlinson  Place  was  the  seat 
of  all  that  was  high,  and  mighty,  and  grand,  in 
the  social  world  in  the  neighborhood  of  Rock- 
ville.  I  remember  that  everybody  stood  in  awe 
of  the  Tomlinsons.  Just  why  this  was  so,  I 
never  could  make  out.  They  were  very  rich; 


IOO  Free  Joe 

the  Place  embraced  several  thousand  acres;  but 
if  the  impressions  made  on  me  when  a  child  are 
worth  anything,  they  were  extremely  simple  in 
their  ways.  Though,  no  doubt,  they  could  be 
formal  and  conventional  enough  when  occasion 
required. 

I  have  no  distinct  recollection  of  Judge  Addi- 
son  Tomlinson,  except  that  he  was  a  very  tall 
old  gentleman,  much  older  than  his  wife,  who 
went  about  the  streets  of  Rockville  carrying  a 
tremendous  gold-headed  cane  carved  in  a  curi 
ous  manner.  In  those  days  I  knew  more  of  Mrs. 
Tomlinson  than  I  did  of  the  judge,  mainly  be 
cause  I  heard  a  great  deal  more  about  her. 
Some  of  the  women  called  her  Mrs.  Judge  Tom 
linson;  but  my  grandmother  never  called  her 
anything  else  but  Harriet  Bledsoe,  which  was 
her  maiden  name.  It  was  a  name,  too,  that 
seemed  to  suit  her,  so  that  when  you  once  heard 
her  called  Harriet  Bledsoe,  you  never  forgot  it 
afterward.  I  do  not  know  now,  any  more  than 
I  did  when  a  child,  why  this  particular  name 
should  fit  her  so  exactly;  but,  as  I  have  been 
told,  a  lack  of  knowledge  does  not  alter  facts. 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  101 

I  think  my  grandmother  used  to  go  to  church 
to  see  what  kind  of  clothes  Harriet  Bledsoe 
wore;  for  I  have  often  heard  her  say,  after  the 
sermon  was  over,  that  Harriet's  bonnet,  or  Har 
riet's  dress,  was  perfectly  charming.  Certainly 
Mrs.  Tomlinson  was  always  dressed  in  the 
height  of  fashion,  though  it  was  a  very  simple 
fashion  when  compared  with  the  flounces  and 
furbelows  of  her  neighbors.  I  remember  this 
distinctly,  that  she  seemed  to  be  perfectly  cool 
the  hottest  Sunday  in  summer,  and  comfortably 
warm  the  coldest  Sunday  in  winter;  and  I  am 
convinced  that  this  impression,  made  on  the 
mind  of  a  child,  must  bear  some  definite  relation 
to  Mrs.  Tomlinson's  good  taste. 

Certainly  my  grandmother  was  never  tired 
of  telling  me  that  Harriet  Bledsoe  was  blessed 
with  exceptionally  good  taste  and  fine  manners; 
and  I  remember  that  she  told  me  often  how  she 
wished  I  was  a  girl,  so  that  I  might  one  day  be 
in  a  position  to  take  advantage  of  the  opportuni 
ties  I  had  had  of  profiting  by  Harriet  Bledsoe's 
example.  I  think  there  was  some  sort  of  at 
tachment  between  my  grandmother  and  Mrs. 


IO2  Free  Joe 

Tomlinson,  formed  when  they  were  at  school 
together,  though  my  grandmother  was  much  the 
older  of  the  two.  But  there  was  no  intimacy. 
The  gulf  that  money  sometimes  makes  between 
those  who  have  it  and  those  who  lack  it  lay 
between  them.  Though  I  think  my  grand 
mother  was  more  sensitive  about  crossing  this 
gulf  than  Mrs.  Tomlinson. 

I  was  never  in  the  Tomlinson  house  but  once 
when  a  child.  Whether  it  was  because  it  was 
two  or  three  miles  away  from  Rockville,  or 
whether  it  was  because  I  stood  in  awe  of  my 
grandmother's  Harriet  Bledsoe,  I  do  not  know. 
But  I  have  a  very  vivid  recollection  of  the  only 
time  I  went  there  as  a  boy.  One  of  my  play 
mates,  a  rough-and-tumble  little  fellow,  was 
sent  by  his  mother,  a  poor  sick  woman,  to  ask 
Mrs.  Tomlinson  for  some  preserves.  I  think 
this  woman  and  her  little  boy  were  in  some  way 
related  to  the  Tomlinsons.  The  richest  and 
most  powerful  people,  I  have  heard  it  said,  are 
not  so  rich  and  powerful  but  they  are  pestered 
by  poor  kin,  and  the  Tomlinsons  were  no  excep 
tion  to  the  rule. 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  103 

I  went  with  this  little  boy  I  spoke  of,  and  I 
was  afraid  afterward  that  I  was  in  some  way 
responsible  for  his  boldness.  He  walked  right 
into  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Tomlinson,  and,  with 
out  waiting  to  return  the  lady's  salutation,  he 
said  in  a  loud  voice: 

"Aunt  Harriet,  ma  says  send  her  some  of  your 
nicest  preserves." 

"Aunt  Harriet,  indeed!"  she  exclaimed,  and 
then  she  gave  him  a  look  that  was  cold  enough 
to  freeze  him,  and  hard  enough  to  send  him 
through  the  floor. 

I  think  she  relented  a  little,  for  she  went  to 
one  of  the  windows,  bigger  than  any  door  you 
see  nowadays,  and  looked  out  over  the  blooming 
orchard ;  and  then  after  a  while  she  came  back 
to  us,  and  was  very  gracious.  She  patted  me  on 
the  head;  and  I  must  have  shrunk  from  her 
touch,  for  she  laughed  and  said  she  never  bit 
nice  little  boys.  Then  she  asked  me  my  name; 
and  when  I  told  her,  she  said  my  grandmother 
was  the  dearest  woman  in  the  world.  Moreover, 
she  told  my  companion  that  it  would  spoil  pre 
serves  to  carry  them  about  in  a  tin  bucket;  and 


IO4  Free  Joe 

then  she  fetched  a  big  basket,  and  had  it  filled 
with  preserves,  and  jelly,  and  cake.  There  were 
some  ginger-preserves  among  the  rest,  and  I  re 
member  that  I  appreciated  them  very  highly; 
the  more  so,  since  my  companion  had  a  theory 
of  his  own  that  ginger-preserves  and  fruit-cake 
were  not  good  for  sick  people. 

I  remember,  too,  that  Mrs.  Tomlinson  had  a 
little  daughter  about  my  own  age.  She  had  long 
yellow  hair  and  very  black  eyes.  She  rode 
around  in  the  Tomlinson  carriage  a  great  deal, 
and  everybody  said  she  was  remarkably  pretty, 
with  a  style  and  a  spirit  all  her  own.  The  ne 
groes  used  to  say  that  she  was  as  affectionate  as 
she  was  wilful,  which  was  saying  a  good  deal. 
It  was  characteristic  of  Harriet  Bledsoe,  my 
grandmother  said,  that  her  little  girl  should  be 
named  Lady. 

I  heard  a  great  many  of  the  facts  I  have  stated 
from  old  Aunt  Fountain,  one  of  the  Tomlinson 
negroes,  who,  for  some  reason  or  other,  was  per 
mitted  to  sell  ginger-cakes  and  persimmon-beer 
under  the  wide-spreading  China  trees  in  Rock- 
ville  on  public  days  and  during  court  week. 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  105 

There  was  a  theory  among  certain  envious  peo 
ple  in  Rockville — there  are  envious  people 
everywhere — that  the  Tomlinsons,  notwithstand 
ing  the  extent  of  their  landed  estate  and  the 
number  of  their  negroes,  were  sometimes  short 
of  ready  cash ;  and  it  was  hinted  that  they  pock 
eted  the  proceeds  of  Aunt  Fountain's  persim 
mon-beer  and  ginger-cakes.  Undoubtedly  such 
stories  as  these  were  the  outcome  of  pure  envy. 
When  my  grandmother  heard  such  gossip  as 
this,  she  sighed,  and  said  that  people  who  would 
talk  about  Harriet  Bledsoe  in  that  way  would 
talk  about  anybody  under  the  sun.  My  own 
opinion  is,  that  Aunt  Fountain  got  the  money 
and  kept  it;  otherwise  she  would  not  have  been 
so  fond  of  her  master  and  mistress,  nor  so  proud 
of  the  family  and  its  position.  I  spent  many  an 
hour  near  Aunt  Fountain's  cake  and  beer  stand, 
for  I  liked  to  hear  her  talk.  Besides,  she  had  a 
very  funny  name,  and  I  thought  there  was  al 
ways  a  probability  that  she  would  explain  how 
she  got  it.  But  she  never  did. 

I    had    forgotten    all    about    the   Tomlinsons 
until  the  advertisement  I  have  mentioned  was 


io6  Free  Joe 

accidentally  brought  to  my  notice,  whereupon 
memory  suddenly  became  wonderfully  active. 
I  am  keenly  alive  to  the  happier  results  of  the 
war,  and  I  hope  I  appreciate  at  their  full  value 
the  emancipation  of  both  whites  and  blacks 
from  the  deadly  effects  of  negro  slavery,  and  the 
wonderful  development  of  our  material  re 
sources  that  the  war  has  rendered  possible;  but 
I  must  confess  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  regret 
that  I  learned  that  the  Tomlinson  Place  had 
been  turned  into  a  dairy  farm.  Moreover,  the 
name  of  Ferris  Trunion  had  a  foreign  and  an 
unfamiliar  sound.  His  bluntly  worded  adver 
tisement  appeared  to  come  from  the  mind  of  a 
man  who  would  not  hesitate  to  sweep  away  both 
romance  and  tradition  if  they  happened  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  a  profitable  bargain. 

I  was  therefore  much  gratified,  some  time 
after  reading  Trunion's  advertisement,  to  re 
ceive  a  note  from  a  friend  who  deals  in  real 
estate,  telling  me  that  some  land  near  the  Tom 
linson  Place  had  been  placed  in  his  hands  for 
sale,  and  asking  me  to  go  to  Rockville  to  see  if 
the  land  and  the  situation  were  all  they  were  de- 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  107 

scribed  to  be.  I  lost  no  time  in  undertaking  this 
part  of  the  business,  for  I  was  anxious  to  see 
how  the  old  place  looked  in  the  hands  of  stran 
gers,  and  unsympathetic  strangers  at  that. 

It  is  not  far  from  Atlanta  to  Rockville — a  day 
and  a  night — and  the  journey  is  not  fatiguing; 
so  that  a  few  hours  after  receiving  my  friend's 
request  I  was  sitting  in  the  veranda  of  the  Rock 
ville  Hotel,  observing,  with  some  degree  of  won 
der,  the  vast  changes  that  had  taken  place — the 
most  of  them  for  the  better.  There  were  new 
faces  and  new  enterprises  all  around  me,  and 
there  was  a  bustle  about  the  town  that  must  have 
caused  queer  sensations  in  the  minds  of  the  few 
old  citizens  who  still  gathered  at  the  post-office 
for  the  purpose  of  carrying  on  ancient  political 
controversies  with  each  other. 

Among  the  few  familiar  figures  that  attracted 
my  attention  was  that  of  Aunt  Fountain.  The 
old  China  tree  in  the  shade  of  which  she  used 
to  sit  had  been  blasted  by  lightning  or  fire;  but 
she  still  had  her  stand  there,  and  she  was  keep 
ing  the  flies  and  dust  away  with  the  same  old 
turkey-tail  fan.  I  could  see  no  change.  If  her 


io8  Free  Joe 

hair  was  grayer,  it  was  covered  and  concealed 
from  view  by  the  snow-white  handkerchief  tied 
around  her  head.  From  my  place  I  could  hear 
her  humming  a  tune — the  tune  I  had  heard  her 
sing  in  precisely  the  same  way  years  ago.  I 
heard  her  scolding  a  little  boy.  The  gesture, 
the  voice,  the  words,  were  the  same  she  had  em 
ployed  in  trying  to  convince  me  that  my  room 
was  much  better  than  my  company,  especially 
in  the  neighborhood  of  her  cake-stand.  To  see 
and  hear  her  thus  gave  me  a  peculiar  feeling  of 
homesickness.  I  approached  and  saluted  her. 
She  bowed  with  old-fashioned  politeness,  but 
without  looking  up. 

"De  biggest  uns,  dee  er  ten  cent,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  her  cakes;  "en  de  littlest,  dee  er  fi' 
cent.  I  make  um  all  myse'f,  suh.  En  de  beer 
in  dat  jug — dat  beer  got  body,  suh." 

"I  have  eaten  many  a  one  of  your  cakes, 
Aunt  Fountain,"  said  I,  "and  drank  many  a 
glass  of  your  beer;  but  you  have  forgotten 


me." 


"My  eye  weak,  suh,  but  dee  ain'  weak  nuff 
fer  dat."    She  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  fan,  and 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  109 

looked  at  me.  Then  she  rose  briskly  from  her 
chair.  "De  Lord  he'p  my  soul!"  she  exclaimed 
enthusiastically.  "Wy,  I  know  you  w'en  you 
little  boy.  Wat  make  I  ain'  know  you  w'en  you 
big  man?  My  eye  weak,  suh,  but  dee  ain'  weak 
nuff  fer  dat.  Well,  suh,  you  mus'  eat  some  my 
ginger-cake.  De  Lord  know  you  has  make  way 
wid  um  w'en  you  wuz  little  boy." 

The  invitation  was  accepted,  but  somehow  the 
ginger-cakes  had  lost  their  old-time  relish;  in 
me  the  taste  and  spirit  of  youth  were  lacking. 

We  talked  of  old  times  and  old  friends,  and 
I  told  Aunt  Fountain  that  I  had  come  to  Rock- 
ville  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  the  Tomlinson  Place. 

"Den  I  gwine  wid  you,  suh,"  she  cried,  shak 
ing  her  head  vigorously.  "I  gwine  wid  you." 
And  go  she  did. 

"I  been  layin'  off  ter  go  see  my  young  mistiss 
dis  long  time,"  said  Aunt  Fountain,  the  next 
day,  after  we  had  started.  "I  glad  I  gwine  deer 
in  style.  De  niggers  won'  know  me  skacely, 
ridin'  in  de  buggy  dis  away." 

"Your  young  mistress?"  I  inquired. 


1 10  Free  Joe 

"Yes,  suh.    You  know  Miss  Lady  w'en  she  lit 
tle  gal.    She  grown  'oman  now." 

"Well,  who  is  this  Trunion  I  have  heard  of?" 
"He  monst'ous  nice  w'ite  man,  suh.    He  mar 
ried  my  young  mistiss.    He  monst'ous  nice  w'ite 


man." 


"But  who  is  he?    Where  did  he  come  from?" 

Aunt  Fountain  chuckled  convulsively  as  I 
asked  these  questions. 

"We-all  des  pick  'im  up,  suh.  Yes,  suh;  we- 
all  des  pick  'im  up.  Ain'  you  year  talk  'bout 
dat,  suh?  I  dunner  whar  you  bin  at  ef  you  ain' 
never  is  year  talk  'bout  dat.  He  de  fus'  w'ite 
man  w'at  I  ever  pick  up,  suh.  Yes,  suh ;  de  ve'y 
fus'  one." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  I ;  "tell  me 
about  it." 

At  this  Aunt  Fountain  laughed  long  and 
loudly.  She  evidently  enjoyed  my  ignorance 
keenly. 

"De  Lord  know  I  oughtn'  be  laughin'  like 
dis.  I  ain'  laugh  so  hearty  sence  I  wuz  little 
gal  mos',  en  dat  wuz  de  time  w'en  Marse  Rowan 
Tomlinson  come  'long  en  ax  me  my  name.  I 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  1 1 1 

tell  'im,  I  did:  'I'm  name  Flew  Ellen,  suh.' 
Marse  Rowan  he  deaf  ez  any  dead  boss.  He 
'low:  'Hey?'  I  say:  'I'm  name  Flew  Ellen, 
suh.'  Marse  Rowan  say:  'Fountain!  Huh!  he 
quare  name.'  I  holler  en  laugh,  en  w'en  de 
folks  ax  me  w'at  I  hollerin'  'bout,  I  tell  um  dat 
Marse  Rowan  say  I'm  name  Fountain.  Well, 
suh,  fum  dat  day  down  ter  dis,  stedder  Flew 
Ellen,  I'm  bin  name  Fountain.  I  laugh  hearty 
den  en  my  name  got  change,  en  I  feared  ef  I 
laugh  now  de  hoss'll  run  away  en  turn  de  buggy 
upperside  down  right  spang  on  top  er  me." 

"But  about  this  Mr.  Trunion?"  said  I. 

"Name  er  de  Lord!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Foun 
tain,  ain'  you  never  is  bin  year  'bout  dat?  You 
bin  mighty  fur  ways,  suh,  kaze  we  all  bin  know- 
in'  'bout  it  fum  de  jump." 

"No  doubt.    Now  tell  me  about  it." 

Aunt  Fountain  shook  her  head,  and  her  face 
assumed  a  serious  expression. 

"I  dunno  'bout  dat,  suh.  I  year  tell  dat  nig 
gers  ain'  got  no  business  fer  go  talkin'  'bout 
fambly  doin's.  Yit  dar  wuz  yo'  gran-mammy. 
My  mistiss  sot  lots  by  her,  en  you  been  bornded 


1 12  Free  Joe 

right  yer  'long  wid  urn.  I  don't  speck  it'll  be 
gwine  so  mighty  fur  out'n  de  fambly  ef  I  tell 
you  'bout  it." 

I  made  no  attempt  to  coax  Aunt  Fountain  to 
tell  me  about  Trunion,  for  I  knew  it  would  be 
difficult  to  bribe  her  not  to  talk  about  him.  She 
waited  a  while,  evidently  to  tease  my  curiosity; 
but  as  I  betrayed  none,  and  even  made  an  effort 
to  talk  about  something  else,  she  began: 

"Well,  suh,  you  ax  me  'bout  Marse  Fess 
Trunion.  I  know  you  bleeze  ter  like  dat  man. 
He  ain'  b'long  ter  we-all  folks,  no  furder  dan 
he  my  young  mistiss  ole  man,  but  dee  ain'  no 
finer  w'ite  man  dan  him.  No,  suh;  dee  ain'.  I 
tell  you  dat  p'intedly.  De  niggers,  dee  say  he 
mighty  close  en  pinchin',  but  deze  is  mighty 
pinchin'  times — you  know  dat  yo'se'f,  suh.  Ef 
a  man  don'  fa'rly  fling  'way  he  money,  dem 
Tomlinson  niggers,  dee'll  say  he  mighty  pinch- 
in'.  I  hatter  be  pinchin'  myse'f,  suh,  kaze  I 
know  time  I  sell  my  ginger-cakes  dat  ef  I  don't 
grip  onter  de  money,  dee  won'  be  none  lef  fer 
buy  flour  en  'lasses  fer  make  mo'.  It  de  Lord's 
trufe,  suh,  kaze  I  done  had  trouble  dat  way 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  113 

many's  de  time.  I  say  dis  'bout  Marse  Fess 
Trunion,  ef  he  ain'  got  de  blood,  he  got  de 
breedin'.  Ef  he  ain'  good  ez  de  Tomlinsons, 
he  lots  better  dan  some  folks  w'at  I  know." 

I  gathered  from  all  this  that  Trunion  was  a 
foreigner  of  some  kind,  but  I  found  out  my  mis 
take  later. 

"I  pick  dat  man  up  myse'f,  en  I  knows  'im 
'most  good  ez  ef  he  wuz  one  er  we-all." 

"What  do  you  mean  when  you  say  you  'picked 
him  up'?"  I  asked,  unable  to  restrain  my  impa 
tience. 

"Well,  suh,  de  fus'  time  I  see  Marse  Fess 
Trunion  wuz  terreckerly  atter  de  Sherman  army 
come  'long.  Dem  wuz  hot  times,  suh,  col'  ez  de 
wedder  wuz.  Dee  wuz  in-about  er  million  un 
um  look  like  ter  me,  en  dee  des  ravage  de  face  er 
de  yeth.  Dee  tuck  all  de  hosses,  en  all  de  cows, 
en  all  de  chickens.  Yes,  suh;  dee  cert'n'y  did. 
Man  come  'long,  en  'low:  'Aunty,  you  free  now,' 
en  den  he  tuck  all  my  ginger-cakes  w'at  I  bin 
bakin'  'g'inst  Chris'mus;  en  den  I  say:  'Ef  I 
wuz  free  ez  you  is,  suh,  I'd  fling  you  down  en 
take  dem  ginger-cakes  'way  fum  you.'  Yes,  suh. 


1 14  Free  Joe 

I  tole  'im  dat.  It  make  me  mad  fer  see  de  way 
dat  man  walk  off  wid  my  ginger-cakes. 

"I  got  so  mad,  suh,  dat  I  foller  'long  atter 
him  little  ways;  but  dat  am'  do  no  good,  kaze 
he  come  ter  whar  dee  wuz  some  yuther  men,  en 
dee  Vide  up  dem  cakes  till  de  wa'n't  no  cake 
lef.  Den  I  struck  'cross  de  plan'ation,  en 
walked  'bout  in  de  drizzlin'  rain  tell  I  cool  off 
my  madness,  suh,  kaze  de  flour  dat  went  in  dem 
cakes  cos'  me  mos  'a  hunderd  dollars  in  good 
Confederick  money.  Yes,  suh;  it  did  dat.  En 
I  work  for  dat  money  mighty  hard. 

"Well,  suh,  I  ain'  walk  fur  'fo'  it  seem  like  I 
year  some  un  talkin'.  I  stop,  I  did,  en  lissen,  en 
still  I  year  um.  I  ain'  see  nobody,  suh,  but  still 
I  year  um.  I  walk  fus'  dis  away  en  den  dat 
away,  en  den  I  walk  'roun'  en  'roun',  en  den  it 
pop  in  my  min'  'bout  de  big  gully.  It  ain'  dar 
now,  suh,  but  in  dem  days  we  call  it  de  big 
gully,  kaze  it  wuz  wide  en  deep.  Well,  suh,  'fo' 
I  git  dar  I  see  hoss-tracks,  en  dee  led  right  up 
ter  de  brink.  I  look  in,  I  did,  en  down  dar  dee 
wuz  a  man  en  a  hoss.  Yes,  suh;  dee  wuz  bofe 
down  dar.  De  man  wuz  layin'  out  flat  on  he 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  11$ 

back,  en  de  boss  he  wuz  layin'  sorter  up  en  down 
de  gully  en  right  on  top  er  one  er  de  man  legs, 
en  eve'y  time  de  hoss'd  scrample  en  try  fer  git 
up  de  man  'ud  talk  at  'im.  I  know  dat  boss 
mus'  des  nat'ally  a  groun'  dat  man  legs  in  de 
yeth,  sub.  Yes,  sub.  It  make  my  flesh  crawl 
w'en  I  look  at  um.  Yit  de  man  am'  talk  like 
he  mad.  No,  suh,  he  ain';  en  it  make  me  feel 
like  somebody  done  gone  en  hit  me  on  de  funny- 
bone  w'en  I  year  ?im  talkin'  dat  away.  Eve'y 
time  de  boss  scuffle,  de  man  he  'low:  'Hoi'  up, 
ole  fel,  you  er  mashin'  all  de  shape  out'n  me.' 
Dat  w'at  he  say,  suh.  En  den  he  'low:  'Ef  you 
know  how  you  hurtin',  ole  fel,  I  des  know  you'd 
be  still.'  Yes,  suh.  Dem  he  ve'y  words. 

"All  dis  time  de  rain  wuz  a-siftin'  down.  It 
fall  mighty  saft,  but  'twuz  monst'ous  wet,  suh. 
Bimeby  I  crope  up  nigher  de  aidge,  en  \v'en  de 
man  see  me  he  holler  out:  'Hoi'  on,  aunty;  don't 
you  fall  down  yer!' 

"I  ax  'im,  I  say:  'Marster,  is  you  hurted 
much?'  Kaze  time  I  look  at  'im  I  know  he  ain' 
de  villyun  w'at  make  off  wid  my  ginger-cakes. 
Den  he  'low:  'I  speck  I  hurt  purty  bad,  aunty, 


n6  Free  Joe 

en  de  wuss  un  it  is  dat  my  boss  keep  hurtin' 


me  mo'.' 


"Den  nex'  time  de  boss  move  it  errortate  me 
so,  sub,  dat  I  holler  at  'im  loud  ez  I  ken:  'Wo 
dar,  you  scan'lous  villyun!  Wo!'  Well,  sub,  I 
speck  dat  boss  mus  a-bin  use'n  ter  niggers,  kaze 
time  I  holler  at  'im  he  lay  right  still,  sub.  I 
slid  down  dat  bank,  en  I  kotch  bolter  dat  bridle 
—I  don't  look  like  I'm  mighty  strong,  does  I, 
suh?"  said  Aunt  Fountain,  pausing  suddenly  in 
her  narrative  to  ask  the  question. 

"Well,  no,"  said  I,  humoring  her  as  much  as 
possible.  "You  don't  seem  to  be  as  strong  as 
some  people  I've  seen." 

"Dat's  it,  suh!"  she  exclaimed.  "Dat  w'at 
worry  me.  I  slid  down  dat  bank,  en  I  kotch  dat 
boss  by  de  bridle.  De  man  say:  'Watch  out  dar, 
aunty!  don't  let  he  foot  hit  you.  Dee  one  cripple 
too  much  now.'  I  am'  pay  no  'tention,  suh.  I 
des  grab  de  bridle,  ei  I  slew  dat  boss  head  roun', 
en  I  fa'rly  lif  'im  on  he  foots.  Yes,  suh,  I  des 
lif  'im  on  he  foots.  Den  I  led  'im  down  de 
gully  en  turnt  'im  a-loose,  en  you  ain'  never  see 
no  boss  supjued  like  dat  boss  wuz,  suh.  Den  I 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  117 

went  back  whar  de  man  layin',  en  ax  'im  ef  he 
feel  better,  en  he  'low  dat  he  feel  like  he  got  a 
big  load  lif  often  he  min',  en  den,  mos'  time  he 
say  dat,  suh,  he  faint  dead  away.  Yes,  suh.  He 
des  faint  dead  away.  I  ain'  never  is  see  no  man 
like  dat,  w'at  kin  be  jokin'  one  minnit  en  o!en 
de  nex'  be  dead,  ez  you  may  say.  But  dat's 
Marse  Fess  Trunion,  suh.  Dat's  him  up  en 
down. 

"Well,  suh,  I  stan'  dar,  I  did,  en  I  ain'  know 
w'at  in  de  name  er  de  Lord  I  gwine  do.  I  wuz 
des  ez  wringin'  wet  ez  if  I'd  a-bin  baptize  in  de 
water;  en  de  man  he  wuz  mo'  wetter  dan  w'at  I 
wuz,  en  goodness  knows  how  long  he  bin  layin' 
dar.  I  run  back  ter  de  big  'ouse,  suh,  mighty 
nigh  a  mile,  en  I  done  my  level  bes'  fer  fin'  some 
er  de  niggers  en  git  um  fer  go  wid  me  back  dar 
en  git  de  man.  But  I  ain'  fin'  none  un  um,  suh. 
Dem  w'at  ain'  gone  wid  de  Sherman  army,  dee 
done  hide  out.  Den  I  went  in  de  big  'ouse,  suh, 
en  tell  Mistiss  'bout  de  man  down  dar  in  de 
gully,  en  how  he  done  hurted  so  bad  he  ain'  kin 
walk.  Den  Mistiss — I  speck  you  done  fergit 
Mistiss,  suh — Mistiss,  she  draw  herse'f  up  en 


n8  Free  Joe 

ax  w'at  business  dat  man  er  any  yuther  man  got 
on  her  plan'ation.  I  say:  'Yassum,  dat  so;  but 
he  done  dar,  en  ef  he  stay  dar  he  gwine  die  dar.' 
Yes,  suh;  dat  w'at  I  say.  I  des  put  it  at  Mistiss 
right  pine-blank. 

"Den  my  young  mistiss — dat's  Miss  Lady,  suh 
—she  say  dat  dough  she  spize  um  all  dez  bad 
az  she  kin,  dat  man  mus'  be  brung  away  from 
dar.  Kaze,  she  say,  she  don't  keer  how  yuther 
folks  go  on,  de  Tomlinsons  is  bleeze  to  do  like 
Christian  people.  Yes,  suh;  she  say  dem  ve'y 
words.  Den  Mistiss,  she  'low  dat  de  man  kin 
be  brung  up,  en  put  in  de  corn-crib,  but  Miss 
Lady  she  say  no,  he  mus'  be  brung  en  put  right 
dar  in  de  big  'ouse  in  one  er  de  upsta'rs  rooms, 
kaze  maybe  some  er  dem  State  er  Georgy  boys 
mought  be  hurted  up  dar  in  de  Norf,  en  want 
some  place  fer  stay  at.  Yes,  suh ;  dat  des  de  way 
she  talk.  Den  Mistiss,  she  ain'  say  nothin',  yit 
she  hoi'  her  head  mighty,  high. 

"Well,  suh,  I  went  back  out  in  de  yard,  en 
den  I  went  'cross  ter  de  nigger-quarter,  en  I  ain' 
gone  fur  tell  I  year  my  ole  man  prayin'  in  dar 
some'r's.  I  know  'im  by  he  v'ice,  suh,  en  he 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  119 

wuz  prayin'  des  like  it  wuz  camp-meetin'  time. 
I  hunt  'roun'  fer  'im,  suh,  en  bimeby  I  fin'  'im 
squattin'  down  behime  de  do'.  I  grab  'im,  I 
did,  en  I  shuck  'im,  en  I  'low:  'Git  up  fum  yer, 
you  nasty,  stinkin'  ole  villyun,  you!'  Yes,  suh; 
I  wuz  mad.  I  say:  'Wat  you  doin'  squattin' 
down  on  de  flo'?  Git  up  fum  dar  en  come  go 
'long  wid  me!'  I  hatter  laugh,  suh,  kaze  w'en 
I  shuck  my  ole  man  be  de  shoulder,  en  holler  at 
'im,  he  put  up  he  two  han',  suh,  en  squall  out: 
'Oh,  pray,  marster!  don't  kill  me  dis  time,  en  I 
ain'  never  gwine  do  it  no  mo'!' 

"Atter  he  'come  pacify,  suh,  den  I  tell  him 
'bout  de  man  down  dar  in  de  gully,  en  yit  we 
ain'  know  w'at  ter  do.  My  ole  man  done  hide 
out  some  er  de  mules  en  bosses  down  in  de 
swamp,  en  he  feard  ter  go  after  um,  suh,  kaze 
he  skeerd  de  Sherman  army  would  come  march- 
in'  back  en  fine  um,  en  he  'low  dat  he  mos'  know 
dee  er  comin'  back  alter  dat  man  down  dar. 
Yes,  suh ;  he  de  skeerdest  nigger  w'at  I  ever  see, 
if  I  do  say  it  myse'f.  Yit,  bimeby  he  put  out 
alter  one  er  de  bosses,  en  he  brung  'im  back;  en 
we  hitch  'im  up  in  de  spring-waggin,  en  atter 


I2O  Free  Joe 

dat  man  we  went.  Yes,  suh;  we  did  dat.  En 
w'en  we  git  dar,  dat  ar  man  wuz  plum  ravin' 
deestracted.  He  wuz  laughin'  en  talkin'  wid 
hese'f,  en  gwine  on,  tell  it  make  yo'  blood  run 
col'  fer  lissen  at  'im.  Yes,  suh. 

"Me  en  my  ole  man,  we  pick  'im  up  des  like 
he  wuz  baby.  I  come  mighty  nigh  droppin'  'im, 
suh,  kaze  one  time,  wiles  we  kyarn  'im  up  de 
bank,  I  year  de  bones  in  he  leg  rasp  up  'g'inst 
one  er  n'er.  Yes,  suh.  It  make  me  blin'  sick, 
suh.  We  kyard  'im  home  en  put  'im  upst'ars, 
en  dar  he  stayed  fer  many's  de  long  day." 

"Where  was  Judge  Tomlinson?"  I  asked.  At 
this  Aunt  Fountain  grew  more  serious  than  ever 
—a  seriousness  that  was  expressed  by  an  in 
creased  particularity  and  emphasis  in  both 
speech  and  manner. 

"You  axin'  'bout  Marster?  Well,  suh,  he 
wuz  dar.  He  wuz  cert'n'y  dar  wid  Mistiss  en 
Miss  Lady,  suh,  but  look  like  he  ain'  take  no 
intruss  in  w'at  gwine  on.  Some  folks  'low,  suh, 
dat  he  ain'  right  in  he  head,  but  dee  ain'  know 
'im — dee  ain't  know  'im,  suh,  like  we-all.  En- 
durin'  er  de  war,  suh,  he  wuz  strucken  wid  de 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  121 

polzy,  en  den  w'en  he  git  well,  he  ain'  take  no 
intruss  in  w'at  gwine  on.  Dey'd  be  long  days, 
suh,  w'en  he  ain'  take  no  notice  er  nobody  ner 
nuttin'  but  Miss  Lady.  He  des  had  dem  spells; 
en  den,  ag'in,  he'd  set  out  on  de  peazzer  en  sing 
by  hese'f,  en  it  make  me  feel  so  lonesome  dat  I 
bleeze  ter  cry.  Yes,  suh;  it's  de  Lord's  trufe. 

"Well,  suh,  dat  man  w'at  I  fin'  out  dar  in  de 
gully  wuz  Marse  Fess  Trunion.  Yes,  suh,  de 
ve'y  same  man.  Dee  ain'  no  tellin'  w'at  dat  po' 
creetur  gone  thoo  wid.  He  had  fever,  he  had 
pneumony,  en  he  had  dat  broke  leg.  En  all 
'long  wid  dat  dee  want  skacely  no  time  w'en 
he  want  laughin'  en  jokin'.  Our  w'ite  folks,  dee 
des  spized  'im  kaze  he  bin  wid  Sherman  army. 
Dee  say  he  wuz  Yankee;  but  I  tell  um,  suh, 
dat  ef  Yankee  look  dat  away  dee  wuz  cert'n'y 
mighty  like  we-all.  Mistiss,  she  ain'  never  go 
'bout  'im  wiles  he  sick;  en  Miss  Lady,  she  keep 
mighty  shy,  en  she  tu'n  up  her  nose  eve'y  time 
she  year  'im  laugh.  Oh,  yes,  suh ;  dee  cert'n'y 
spize  de  Yankees  endurin'  er  dem  times.  Dee 
hated  um  rank,  suh.  I  tell  um,  I  say:  'You-all 
des  wait.  Dee  ain'  no  nicer  man  dan  w'at  he  is, 

VOL.  3  6 


122  Free  Joe 

en  you-all  des  wait  tell  you  know  'im.'  Shoo!  I 
des  might  ez  well  talk  ter  de  win',  suh — dee 
hate  de  Yankees  dat  rank. 

"By  de  time  dat  man  git  so  he  kin  creep  'bout 
on  crutches,  he  look  mos'  good  ez  he  do  now. 
He  wuz  dat  full  er  life,  suh,  dat  he  bleeze  ter 
go  downsta'rs,  en  down  he  went.  Well,  suh,  he 
wuz  mighty  lucky  dat  day.  Kaze  ef  he'd  a  run 
up  wid  Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady  by  hese'f,  dee'd 
er  done  sumpn'  ner  fer  ter  make  'im  feel  bad. 
Dee  cert'n'y  would,  suh.  But  dee  wuz  walkin' 
'roun'  in  de  yard,  en  he  come  out  on  de  peazzer 
whar  Marster  wuz  sunnin'  hese'f  and  singin'. 
I  wouldn'  b'lieve  it,  suh,  ef  I  ain'  see  it  wid  my 
two  eyes;  but  Marster  got  up  out'n  he  cheer,  en 
straighten  hese'f,  en  shuck  han's  wid  Mars  Fess, 
en  look  like  he  know  all  'bout  it.  Dee  sot  dar, 
suh,  en  talk  en  laugh,  en  laugh  en  talk,  tell 
bimeby  I  'gun  ter  git  skeerd  on  de  accounts  er 
bofe  un  um.  Dee  talk  'bout  de  war,  en  dee  talk 
'bout  de  Yankees,  en  dee  talk  politics  right 
straight  'long  des  like  Marster  done  'fo'  he  bin 
strucken  wid  de  polzy.  En  he  talk  sense,  suh. 
He  cert'n'y  did.  Bimeby  Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  123 

come  back  fum  dee  walk,  en  dee  look  like  dee 
gwine  drap  w'en  dee  see  w'at  gwine  on.  Dem 
two  mens  wuz  so  busy  takin',  suh,  dat  dee  ain' 
see  de  wimmen  folks,  en  dee  des  keep  right  on 
wid  dee  argafyin'.  Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady,  dee 
ain'  know  w'at  ter  make  er  all  dis,  en  dee  stan' 
dar  lookin'  fus'  at  Marster  en  den  at  one  er  n'er. 
Bimeby  dee  went  up  de  steps  en  start  to  go  by, 
but  Marster  he  riz  up  en  stop  um.  Yes,  suh. 
He  riz  right  up  en  stop  um,  en  right  den  en  dar, 
suh,  he  make  um  interjuced  ter  one  an'er.  He 
stan'  up,  en  he  say:  'Mr.  Trunion,  dis  my  wife; 
Mr.  Trunion,  dis  my  daughter.' 

"Well,  suh,  I  wuz  stannin'  back  in  de  big  hall, 
en  we'n  I  see  Marster  gwine  on  dat  away  my 
knees  come  mighty  nigh  failin'  me,  suh.  Dis  de 
fus'  time  w'at  he  reckermember  anybody  name, 
an  de  fus'  time  he  do  like  he  useter,  sence  he  bin 
sick  wid  de  polzy.  Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady,  dee 
come  'long  in  after  w'ile,  en  dee  look  like  dee 
skeerd.  Well,  suh,  I  des  far'ly  preach  at  um. 
Yes,  suh;  I  did  dat.  I  say:  'You  see  dat?  You 
see  how  Marster  doin'?  Ef  de  han'  er  de  Lord 
ain'  in  dat,  den  de  han'  ain'  bin  in  nuttin'  on  de 


124  Free  Joe 

top  side  er  dis  yeth.'  I  say:  'You  see  how  you 
bin  cuttin'  up  'roun'  dat  sick  w'ite  man  wid  yo' 
biggity  capers,  en  yit  de  Lord  retch  down  en 
make  Marster  soun'  en  well  time  de  yuther  w'ite 
man  tetch  'im.  Well,  suh,  dey  wuz  dat  worked 
up  dat  dey  sot  down  en  cried.  Yes,  suh;  dey 
did  dat.  Dey  cried.  En  I  ain'  tellin'  you  no  lie, 
suh,  I  stood  dar  en  cried  wid  um.  Let  'lone  dat, 
I  des  far'ly  boohooed.  Yes,  suh;  dat's  me. 
Wen  I  git  ter  cryin'  sho'  nuff,  I  bleeze  ter 
boohoo. 

"Fum  dat  on,  Marster  do  like  hese'f,  en  talk 
like  hese'f.  It  look  like  he  bin  sleep  long  time, 
suh,  en  de  sleep  done  'im  good.  All  he  sense 
come  back;  en  you  know,  suh,  de  Tomlinsons, 
w'en  dey  at  deese'f,  got  much  sense  ez  dee  want 
en  some  fer  give  way.  Mistiss  and  Miss  Lady, 
dee  wuz  mighty  proud  'bout  Marster,  suh,  but 
dee  ain'  fergit  dat  de  yuther  man  wuz  Yankee, 
en  dee  hoi'  deese'f  monst'ous  stiff.  He  notice 
dat  hese'f,  en  he  want  ter  go  'way,  but  Marster, 
he  'fuse  ter  lissen  at  'im  right  pine-plank,  suh. 
He  say  de  dead  Tomlinsons  would  in-about  turn 
over  in  dee  graves  ef  dee  know  he  sont  a  cripple 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  125 

man  ''way  from  he  'ouse.  Den  he  want  ter  pay 
he  board,  but  Marster  ain'  lissen  ter  dat,  en 
needer  is  Mistiss;  en  dis  mighty  funny,  too, 
kaze  right  dat  minnit  dee  wa'n't  a  half  er  dollar 
er  good  money  in  de  whole  fambly,  ceppin' 
some  silver  w'at  I  work  fer,  en  w'at  I  hide  in 
er  chink  er  my  chimbly.  No,  suh.  Dee  want 
er  half  er  dollar  in  de  whole  fambly,  suh.  En 
yit  dee  won't  take  de  greenbacks  w'at  dat  man 
offer  um. 

"By  dat  time,  suh,  de  war  wuz  done  done,  en 
dee  wuz  tough  times.  Dee  cert'n'y  wuz,  suh. 
De  railroads  wuz  all  broke  up,  en  eve'ything 
look  like  it  gwine  helter-skelter  right  straight 
ter  de  Ole  Boy.  Ded  wa'n't  no  law,  suh,  en  dey 
wa'n't  no  nuttin';  en  ef  it  hadn't  er  bin  fer  me 
en  my  ole  man,  I  speck  de  Tomlinsons,  proud 
ez  dee  wuz,  would  er  bin  mightily  pincht  fer 
fin'  bread  en  meat.  But  dee  ain'  never  want  fer 
it  yit,  suh,  kaze  w'en  me  en  my  ole  man  git  whar 
we  can't  move  no  furder,  Marse  Fess  Trunion, 
he  tuck  holt  er  de  place  en  he  fetcht  it  right  side 
up  terreckerly.  He  say  ter  me  dat  he  gwine  pay 
he  board  dat  away,  suh,  but  he  ain'  say  it  whar 


ia6  Tree  Joe 

de  Tomlinsons  kin  year  'im,  kaze  den  dee'd 
a-bin  a  fuss,  suh.  But  he  kotch  holt,  en  me,  en 
him,  en  my  ole  man,  we  des  he't  eve'ything  hot. 
Mo'  speshually  Marse  Fess  Trunion,  suh.  You 
ain'  know  'im,  suh,  but  dat  ar  w'ite  man,  he  got 
mo'  ways  ter  work,  en  mo'  short  cuts  ter  de  ways, 
suh,  dan  any  w'ite  man  w'at  I  ever  see,  en  I  done 
see  lots  un  um.  It  got  so,  suh,  dat  me  en  my  ole 
man  ain'  have  ter  draw  no  mo'  rashuns  fum  de 
F'eedman  Bureau;  but  dee  wuz  one  spell,  suh, 
w'en  wuss  rashuns  dan  dem  wuz  on  de  Tomlin- 
son  table. 

"Well,  suh,  dat  w'ite  man,  he  work  en  he 
scuffle;  he  hire  niggers,  and  he  turn  um  off;  he 
plan,  en  he  projick;  en  'tain'  so  mighty  long, 
suh,  'fo'  he  got  eve'ything  gwine  straight.  How 
he  done  it,  I'll  never  tell  you,  suh ;  but  do  it  he 
did.  He  put  he  own  money  in  dar,  suh,  kaze 
dee  wuz  two  times  dat  I  knows  un  w'en  he  git 
money  out'n  de  pos'-office,  en  I  see  'im  pay  it 
out  ter  de  niggers,  suh.  En  all  dat  time  he  look 
like  he  de  nappies'  w'ite  man  on  top  er  de 
groun',  suh.  Yes,  suh.  En  w'en  he  at  de  'ouse 
Marster  stuck  right  by  'im,  en  ef  he  bin  he  own 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  127 

son  he  couldn't  pay  him  mo'  'tention.  Dee  wuz 
times,  suh,  w'en  it  seem  like  ter  me  dat  Marse 
Fess  Trunion  wuz  a-cuttin'  he  eye  at  Miss  Lady, 
en  den  I  'low  ter  myse'f:  'Shoo,  man'  you 
mighty  nice  en  all  dat,  but  you  Yankee,  en  you 
nee'nter  be  a-drappin'  yo'  wing  'roun'  Miss 
Lady,  kaze  she  too  high-strung  fer  dat.' 

"It  look  like  he  see  it  de  same  way  I  do,  suh, 
kaze  atter  he  git  eve'ything  straight  he  say  he 
gwine  home.  Marster  look  like  he  feel  mighty 
bad,  but  Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady,  dee  ain't  say 
nuttin'  'tall.  Den,  atter  w'ile,  suh,  Marse  Fess 
Trunion  fix  up,  en  off  he  put.  Yes,  suh.  He 
went  off  whar  he  come  fum,  en  I  speck  he  folks 
wuz  mighty  glad  ter  see  'im  atter  so  long,  kaze 
ef  dee  ever  wuz  a  plum  nice  man  it  wuz  dat 
man.  He  want  no  great  big  man,  suh,  en  he 
ain'  make  much  fuss,  yit  he  lef  a  mighty  big 
hole  at  de  Tomlinson  Place,  w'en  he  pulled  out 
fum  dar.  Yes,  suh;  he  did  dat.  It  look  like  it 
lonesome  all  over  de  plan'ation.  Marster,  he 
'gun  ter  git  droopy,  but  eve'y  time  de  dinner  bell 
ring  he  go  ter  de  foot  er  de  sta'rs  en  call  out: 
'Come  on.  Trunion!'  Yes,  suh.  He  holler  dat 


iz8  Free  Joe 

out  eve'y  day,  en  den,  w'iles  he  be  talkin',  he'd 
stop  en  look  roun'  en  say:  'Whar  Trunion?'  It 
ain'  make  no  difference  who  he  talkin'  wid,  suh, 
he'd  des  stop  right  still  en  ax:  'Whar  Trunion?' 
Den  de  niggers,  dee  got  slack,  en  eve'ything 
'gun  ter  go  een'-ways.  One  day  I  run  up  on 
Miss  Lady  settin'  down  cryin',  en  I  ax  her  w'at 
de  name  er  goodness  de  matter,  en  she  say  nuff 
de  matter.  Den  I  say  she  better  go  ask  her 
pappy  whar  Trunion,  en  den  she  git  red  in  de 
face,  en  'low  I  better  go  'ten'  ter  my  business ;  en 
den  I  tell  her  dat  ef  somebody  ain'  tell  us  whar 
Trunion  is,  en  dat  mighty  quick,  dee  won't  be  no 
business  on  dat  place  fer  'ten'  ter.  Yes,  suh.  I 
tol'  her  dat  right  p'intedly,  suh. 

"Well,  suh,  one  day  Marse  Fess  Trunion  come 
a-drivin'  up  in  a  shiny  double  buggy,  en  he  look 
like  he  des  step  right  out'n  a  ban'-box;  en  ef 
ever  I  wuz  glad  ter  see  anybody,  I  wuz  glad  ter 
see  dat  man.  Marster  wuz  glad;  en  dis  time, 
suh,  Miss  Lady  wuz  glad,  en  she  show  it  right 
plain;  but  Mistiss,  she  still  sniff  de  a'r  en  hoi' 
her  head  high.  T'wa'n't  long,  suh,  'fo'  we  all 
knowd  dat  Marse  Fess  wuz  gwine  marry  Miss 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  129 

Lady.  I  ain'  know  how  dee  fix  it,  kaze  Mistiss 
never  is  come  right  out  en  say  she  'agreeable 
'bout  it,  but  Miss  Lady  wuz  a  Bledsoe  too,  en  a 
Tomlinson  ter  boot,  en  I  ain'  never  see  nobody 
w'at  impatient  nuff  fer  ter  stan'  out  'g'inst  dat 
gal.  It  ain'  all  happen,  suh,  quick  ez  I  tell  it, 
but  it  happen;  en  but  fer  dat,  I  dunno  w'at  in 
de  name  er  goodness  would  er  'come  er  dis 
place." 

A  few  hours  later,  as  I  sat  with  Trunion  on 
the  veranda  of  his  house,  he  verified  Aunt  Foun 
tain's  story,  but  not  until  after  he  was  convinced 
that  I  was  familiar  with  the  history  of  the  fam 
ily.  There  was  much  in  that  history  he  could 
afford  to  be  proud  of,  modern  though  he  was. 
A  man  who  believes  in  the  results  of  blood  in 
cattle  is  not  likely  to  ignore  the  possibility  of 
similar  results  in  human  beings;  and  I  think  he 
regarded  the  matter  in  some  such  practical  light. 
He  was  a  man,  it  seemed,  who  was  disposed  to 
look  lightly  on  trouble,  once  it  was  over  with; 
and  I  found  he  was  not  so  much  impressed  with 
his  struggle  against  the  positive  scorn  and  con 
tempt  of  Mrs.  Tomlinson — a  struggle  that  was 


130  Free  Joe 

infinitely  more  important  and  protracted  than 
Aunt  Fountain  had  described  it  to  be — as  he 
was  with  his  conflict  with  Bermuda  grass.  He 
told  me  laughingly  of  some  of  his  troubles  with 
his  hot-headed  neighbors  in  the  early  days  after 
the  war,  but  nothing  of  this  sort  seemed  to  be  as 
important  as  his  difficulties  with  Bermuda  grass. 
Here  the  practical  and  progressive  man  showed 
himself;  for  I  have  a  very  vivid  recollection  of 
the  desperate  attempts  of  the  farmers  of  that 
region  to  uproot  and  destroy  this  particular 
variety. 

As  for  Trunion,  he  conquered  it  by  cultivating 
it  for  the  benefit  of  himself  and  his  neighbors; 
and  I  suspect  that  this  is  the  way  he  conquered 
his  other  opponents.  It  was  a  great  victory  over 
the  grass,  at  any  rate.  I  walked  with  him  over 
the  place,  and  the  picture  of  it  all  is  still  framed 
in  my  mind — the  wonderful  hedges  of  Cherokee 
roses,  and  the  fragrant  and  fertile  stretches  of 
green  Bermuda  through  which  beautiful  fawn- 
colored  cattle  were  leisurely  making  their  way. 
He  had  a  theory  that  this  was  the  only  grass  in 
the  world  fit  for  the  dainty  Jersey  cow  to  eat. 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner  131 

There  were  comforts  and  conveniences  on  the 
Tomlinson  Place  not  dreamed  of  in  the  old 
days,  and  I  think  there  was  substantial  happi 
ness  there  too.  Trunion  himself  was  a  whole 
some  man,  a  man  full  of  honest  affection,  hearty 
laughter,  and  hard  work — a  breezy,  compan 
ionable,  energetic  man.  There  was  something 
boyish,  unaffected,  and  winsome  in  his  manners; 
and  I  can  easily  understand  why  Judge  Addison 
Tomlinson,  in  his  old  age,  insisted  on  astonish 
ing  his  family  and  his  guests  by  exclaiming: 
"Where's  Trunion?"  Certainly  he  was  a  man 
to  think  about  and  inquire  after. 

I  have  rarely  seen  a  lovelier  woman  than  his 
wife,  and  I  think  her  happiness  helped  to  make 
her  so.  She  had  inherited  a  certain  degree  of 
cold  stateliness  from  her  ancestors;  but  her  ex 
perience  after  the  war,  and  Trunion's  unaffected 
ways,  had  acted  as  powerful  correctives,  and 
there  was  nothing  in  the  shape  of  indifference 
or  haughtiness  to  mar  her  singular  beauty. 

As  for  Mrs.  Tomlinson — the  habit  is  still 
strong  in  me  to  call  her  Harriet  Bledsoe — I 
think  that  in  her  secret  soul  she  had  an  in- 


132  Free  Joe 

eradicable  contempt  for  Trunion's  extraordi 
nary  business  energy.  I  think  his  "push  and 
vim,"  as  the  phrase  goes,  shocked  her  sense  of 
propriety  to  a  far  greater  extent  than  she  would 
have  been  willing  to  admit.  But  she  had  little 
time  to  think  of  these  matters;  for  she  had  taken 
possession  of  her  grandson,  Master  Addison 
Tomlinson  Trunion,  and  was  absorbed  in  his 
wild  and  boisterous  ways,  as  grandmothers  will 
be.  This  boy,  a  brave  and  manly  little  fellow, 
had  Trunion's  temper,  but  he  had  inherited  the 
Tomlinson  air.  It  became  him  well,  too,  and  I 
think  Trunion  was  proud  of  it. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  I,  in  parting,  "that  I  have 
seen  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner." 

"Ah!"  said  he,  looking  at  his  wife,  who  smiled 
and  blushed,  "that  was  during  the  war.  Since 
then  I  have  been  a  Prisoner  of  Peace." 

I  do  not  know  what  industrial  theories  Trun 
ion  has  impressed  on  his  neighborhood  by  this 
time;  but  he  gave  me  a  practical  illustration  of 
the  fact  that  one  may  be  a  Yankee  and  a  South 
erner  too,  simply  by  being  a  large-hearted, 
whole-souled  American. 


TROUBLE    ON    LOST    MOUNTAIN 

THERE  is  no  doubt  that  when  Miss  Babe 
'Hightower  stepped  out  on  the  porch,  just  after 
sunrise  one  fine  morning  in  the  spring  of  1876, 
she  had  the  opportunity  of  enjoying  a  scene  as 
beautiful  as  any  that  nature  offers  to  the  human 
eye.  She  was  poised,  so  to  speak,  on  the  shoul 
der  of  Lost  Mountain,  a  spot  made  cheerful  and 
hospitable  by  her  father's  industry,  and  by  her 
own  inspiring  presence.  The  scene,  indeed,  was 
almost  portentous  in  its  beauty.  Away  above 
her  the  summit  of  the  mountain  was  bathed  in 
sunlight,  while  in  the  valley  below  the  shadows 
of  dawn  were  still  hovering — a  slow-moving  sea 
of  transparent  gray,  touched  here  and  there 
with  silvery  reflections  of  light.  Across  the  face 
of  the  mountain  that  lifted  itself  to  the  skies,  a 
belated  cloud  trailed  its  wet  skirts,  revealing,  as 
it  fled  westward,  a  panorama  of  exquisite  love- 

133 


134  Free  Joe 

liness.  The  fresh,  tender  foliage  of  the  young 
pines,  massed  here  and  there  against  the  moun 
tain  side,  moved  and  swayed  in  the  morning 
breeze  until  it  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  the  atmos 
phere,  a  pale-green  mist  that  would  presently 
mount  into  the  upper  air  and  melt  away.  On  a 
dead  pine  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  a  turkey- 
buzzard  sat  with  wings  outspread  to  catch  the 
warmth  of  the  sun ;  while  far  above  him,  poised 
in  the  illimitable  blue,  serene,  almost  motion 
less,  as  though  swung  in  the  centre  of  space,  his 
mate  overlooked  the  world.  The  wild  honey 
suckles  clambered  from  bush  to  bush,  and  from 
tree  to  tree,  mingling  their  faint,  sweet  perfume 
with  the  delicious  odors  that  seemed  to  rise  from 
the  valley,  and  float  down  from  the  mountain  to 
meet  in  a  little  whirlpool  of  fragrance  in  the 
porch  where  Miss  Babe  Hightower  stood.  The 
flowers  and  the  trees  could  speak  for  themselves; 
the  slightest  breeze  gave  them  motion:  but  the 
majesty  of  the  mountain  was  voiceless ;  its  beauty 
was  forever  motionless.  Its  silence  seemed  more 
suggestive  than  the  lapse  of  time,  more  pro 
found  than  a  prophet's  vision  of  eternity,  more 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  135 

mysterious    than    any   problem    of    the    human 
mind. 

It  is  fair  to  say,  however,  that  Miss  Babe 
Hightower  did  not  survey  the  panorama  that 
lay  spread  out  below  her,  around  her,  and  above 
her,  with  any  peculiar  emotions.  She  was  not 
without  sentiment,  for  she  was  a  young  girl  just 
budding  into  womanhood,  but  all  the  scenery 
that  the  mountain  or  the  valley  could  show  was 
as  familiar  to  her  as  the  fox-hounds  that  lay 
curled  up  in  the  fence-corners,  or  the  fowls  that 
crowed  and  clucked  and  cackled  in  the  yard. 
She  had  discovered,  indeed,  that  the  individu 
ality  of  the  mountain  was  impressive,  for  she 
was  always  lonely  and  melancholy  when  away 
from  it;  but  she  viewed  it,  not  as  a  picturesque 
affair  to  wonder  at,  but  as  a  companion  with 
whom  she  might  hold  communion.  The  moun 
tain  was  something  more  than  a  mountain  to  her. 
Hundreds  of  times,  when  a  little  child,  she  had 
told  it  her  small  troubles,  and  it  had  seemed  to 
her  that  the  spirit  of  comfort  dwelt  somewhere 
near  the  precipitous  summit.  As  she  grew  older 
the  mountain  played  a  less  important  part  in  her 


136  Tree  'Joe 

imagination,  but  she  continued  to  regard  it  with 
a  feeling  of  fellowship  which  she  never  troubled 
herself  to  explain  or  define. 

Nevertheless,  she  did  not  step  out  on  the  porch 
to  worship  at  the  shrine  of  the  mountain,  or  to 
enjoy  the  marvelous  picture  that  nature  pre 
sented  to  the  eye.  She  went  out  in  obedience  to 
the  shrilly  uttered  command  of  her  mother: 

"Run,  Babe,  run!  That  plegged  old  cat's 
a-tryin'  to  drink  out'n  the  water-bucket.  Fling 
a  cheer  at  'er!  Sick  the  dogs  on  'er." 

The  cat,  understanding  the  situation,  promptly 
disappeared  when  it  saw  Babe,  and  the  latter 
had  nothing  to  do  but  make  such  demonstrations 
as  are  natural  to  youth,  if  not  to  beauty.  She 
seized  one  of  the  many  curious  crystal  forma 
tions  which  she  had  picked  up  on  the  mountain, 
and  employed  for  various  purposes  of  ornamen 
tation,  and  sent  it  flying  after  the  cat.  She 
threw  with  great  strength  and  accuracy,  but  the 
cat  was  gone.  The  crystal  went  zooning  into 
the  fence-corner  where  one  of  the  hounds  lay; 
and  this  sensitive  creature,  taking  it  for  granted 
that  he  had  been  made  the  special  object  of 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  137 

attack,  set  up  a  series  of  loud  yells  by  way  of 
protest.  This  aroused  the  rest  of  the  dogs,  and 
in  a  moment  that  particular  part  of  the  moun 
tain  was  in  an  uproar.  Just  at  that  instant  a 
stalwart  man  came  around  the  corner  of  the 
house.  He  was  bareheaded,  and  wore  neither 
coat  nor  vest.  He  was  tall  and  well  made, 
though  rather  too  massive  to  be  supple.  His 
beard,  which  was  full  and  flowing,  was  plenti 
fully  streaked  with  gray.  His  appearance  would 
have  been  strikingly  ferocious  but  for  his  eyes, 
which  showed  a  nature  at  once  simple  and 
humorous — and  certainly  the  strongly  molded, 
square-set  jaws,  and  the  firm  lips  needed  some 
such  pleasant  corrective. 

"Great  Jerusalem,  Babe!"  cried  this  mild-eyed 
giant.  "What  could  'a'  possessed  you  to  be 
a-chunkin'  ole  Blue  that  away?  Ag'in  bullaces 
is  ripe  you'll  git  your  heart  sot  on  'possum,  an' 
whar'  is  the  'possum  comin'  from  ef  ole  Blue's 
laid  up?  Blame  my  hide  ef  you  ain't  a-cuttin' 
up  some  mighty  quare  capers  fer  a  young  gal." 

"Why,  Pap!"  exclaimed  Babe,  as  soon  as  she 
could  control  her  laughter,  "that  rock  didn't 


138  Free  Joe 

tetch  ole  Blue.  He's  sech  a  make-believe,  I'm 
a  great  mind  to  hit  him  a  clip  jest  to  show  you 
how  he  can  go  on." 

"Now,  don't  do  that,  honey,"  said  her  father. 
"Ef  you  want  to  chunk  anybody,  chunk  me.  I 
kin  holler  lots  purtier'n  ole  Blue.  An'  ef  you 
don't  want  to  chunk  me,  chunk  your  mam 
my  fer  ole  acquaintance'  sake.  She's  big  an' 
fat." 

uOh,  Lordy!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Highfower 
from  the  inside  of  the  house.  "Don't  set  her 
atter  me,  Abe — don't,  fer  mercy's  sake.  Get  her 
in  the  notion,  an'  she'll  be  a-yerkin'  me  aroun' 
thereckly  like  I  wuz  a  rag-baby.  I'm  a-gittin' 
too  ole  fer  ter  be  romped  aroun'  by  a  great  big 
double-j'inted  gal  like  Babe.  Projick  wi'  'er 
yourself,  but  make  'er  let  me  alone." 

Abe  turned  and  went  around  the  house  again, 
leaving  his  daughter  standing  on  the  porch,  her 
cheeks  glowing,  and  her  black  eyes  sparkling 
with  laughter.  Babe  loitered  on  the  porch  a 
moment,  looking  into  the  valley.  The  gray  mists 
had  lifted  themselves  into  the  upper  air,  and  the 
atmosphere  was  so  clear  that  the  road  leading  to 


'Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  139 

the  mountain  could  be  followed  by  the  eye,  save 
where  it  ran  under  the  masses  of  foliage;  and  it 
seemed  to  be  a  most  devious  and  versatile  road, 
turning  back  on  itself  at  one  moment  only  to 
plunge  boldly  forward  the  next.  Nor  was  it 
lacking  in  color.  On  the  levels  it  was  of  daz 
zling  whiteness,  shining  like  a  pool  of  water; 
but  at  points  where  it  made  a  visible  descent  it 
was  alternately  red  and  gray.  Something  or 
other  on  this  variegated  road  attracted  Miss 
Babe's  attention,  for  she  shaded  her  eyes  with 
her  hand,  and  leaned  forward.  Presently  she 
cried  out: 

"Pap! — oh,  pap!  there's  a  man  a-ridin'  up 
Peevy's  Ridge." 

This  information  was  repeated  by  Babe's 
mother;  and  in  a  few  moments  the  porch,  which 
was  none  too  commodious,  though  it  was  very 
substantial,  was  occupied  by  the  entire  High- 
tower  family,  which  included  Grandsir  High- 
tower,  a  white-haired  old  man,  whose  serenity 
seemed  to  be  borrowed  from  another  world. 
Mrs.  Hightower  herself  was  a  stout,  motherly- 
looking  woman,  whose  whole  appearance  beto- 


140  Free  Joe 

kened  contentment,  if  not  happiness.  Abe  shaded 
his  eyes  with  his  broad  hand,  and  looked  toward 
Peevy's  Ridge. 

"I  reckon  maybe  it's  Tuck  Peevy  hisse'f," 
Mrs.  Hightower  remarked. 

"That's  who  I  'lowed  hit  wiz,"  said  Grand- 
sir  Hightower,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  had  pre 
viously  made  up  his  mind. 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  ought  to  know  Tuck 
Peevy,"  exclaimed  Babe. 

"That's  so,"  said  Grandsir  Hightower.  "Babe 
oughter  know  Tuck.  She  oughter  know  him 
certain  an'  shore;  bekaze  he's  bin  a-floppin'  in 
an'  out  er  this  house  ever'  Sunday  fer  mighty 
nigh  two  year'.  Some  sez  he  likes  Babe,  an' 
some  sez  he  likes  Susan's  fried  chicken.  Now, 
in  my  day  and  time — " 

"He's  in  the  dreen  now,"  said  Babe,  inter 
rupting  her  loquacious  grandparent,  who  threat 
ened  to  make  some  embarrassing  remark.  "He's 
a-ridin'  a  gray." 

"He's  a  mighty  early  bird,"  said  Abe,  "less'n 
he's  a-headin'  fer  the  furder  side.  Maybe  he's  a 
revenue  man,"  he  continued.  "They  say  they're 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  141 

a-gwine    to   heat   the   hills    mighty    hot   from 
this  on." 

"You  hain't  got  nothing  gwine  on  down  on 
the  branch,  is  you,  Abe?"  inquired  Grandsir 
Hightower,  with  pardonable  solicitude. 

"Well,"  said  Abe  evasively,  "I  hain't  kindled 
no  fires  yit,  but  you  better  b'lieve  I'm  a-gwine 
to  keep  my  beer  from  sp'ilin'.  The  way  I  do 
my  countin',  one  tub  of  beer  is  natchally  wuth 
two  revenue  chaps." 

By  this  time  the  horseman  who  had  attracted 
Babe's  attention  came  into  view  again.  Abe 
studied  him  a  moment,  and  remarked: 

"That  boss  steps  right  along,  an'  the  chap 
a-straddle  of  him  is  got  on  store-clo'es.  Fetch 
me  my  rifle,  Babe.  I'll  meet  that  feller  half 
way  an'  make  some  inquirements  about  his  fam- 
erly,  an'  maybe  I'll  fetch  a  squir'l  back." 

With  this  Abe  called  to  his  dogs,  and  started 
off. 

"Better  keep  your  eye  open,  Pap,"  cried  Sis. 
"Maybe  it's  the  sheriff." 

Abe  paused  a  moment,  and  then  pretended  to 
be  hunting  a  stone  with  which  to  demolish  his 


142  Free  Joe 

daughter,  whereupon  Babe  ran  laughing  into 
the  house.  The  allusion  to  the  sheriff  was  a 
stock  joke  in  the  Hightower  household,  though 
none  of  them  made  such  free  use  of  it  as  Babe, 
who  was  something  more  than  a  privileged  char 
acter,  so  far  as  her  father  was  concerned.  On 
one  occasion  shortly  after  the  war,  Abe  had 
gone  to  the  little  county  town  on  business,  and 
had  been  vexed  into  laying  rough  hands  on  one 
of  the  prominent  citizens  who  was  a  trifle  under 
the  influence  of  liquor.  A  warrant  was  issued, 
and  Dave  McLendon,  the  sheriff  of  the  county, 
a  stumpy  little  man,  whose  boldness  and  pru 
dence  made  him  the  terror  of  criminals,  was 
sent  to  serve  it.  Abe,  who  was  on  the  lookout 
for  some  such  visitation,  saw  him  coming,  and 
prepared  himself.  He  stood  in  the  doorway, 
with  his  rifle  flung  carelessly  across  his  left  arm. 

"Hold  on  thar,  Dave!"  he  cried,  as  the  latter 
came  up.  The  sheriff,  knowing  his  man,  halted. 

"I  hate  to  fling  away  my  manners,  Dave,"  he 
went  on,  "but  folks  is  gittin'  to  be  mighty  funny 
these  days.  A  man's  obleeged  to  s'arch  his  best 
frien's  'fore  he  kin  find  out  the'r  which  aways. 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  143 

Dave,   what  sort  of   a   dockyment   is   you   got 
ag'in'  me?" 

"I  got  a  warrant,  Abe,"  said  the  sheriff,  pleas 
antly. 

"Well,  Dave,  hit  won't  fetch  me,"  said  Abe. 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  the  sheriff.  "Yes,  it  will, 
Abe.  I  bin  a-usin'  these  kind  er  warrants  a 
mighty  long  time,  an'  they  fetches  a  feller  every 
whack." 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  Dave,"  said  Abe, 
patting  his  rifle,  "I  got  a  dockyment  here  that'll 
fetch  you  a  blame  sight  quicker'n  your  docky- 
ment'll  fetch  me;  an'  I  tell  you  right  now,  plain 
an'  flat,  I  hain't  a-gwine  to  be  drug  aroun'  an' 
slapped  in  jail." 

The  sheriff  leaned  carelessly  against  the  rail 
fence  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  who  is  willing  to 
argue  an  interesting  question. 

"Well,  I  tell  you  how  I  feel  about  it,  Abe," 
said  the  sheriff,  speaking  very  slowly.  "You  kin 
shoot  me,  but  you  can't  shoot  the  law.  Bang 
away  at  me,  an'  thar's  another  warrant  atter  you. 
This  yer  one  what  I'm  already  got  don't  amount 
to  shucks,  so  you  better  fling  on  your  coat  saddle 


144  Free  Joe 

your  horse,  an'  go  right  along  wi'  me  thes  es 
neighborly  ez  you  please." 

"Dave,"  said  Abe,  "if  you  come  in  at  that  gate 
you  er  a  goner." 

"Well,  Abe,"  the  sheriff  replied,  "I  'lowed 
you'd  kick;  I  know  what  human  natur'  on  these 
hills  is,  an'  so  I  thes  axed  some  er  the  boys  to 
come  along.  They  er  right  down  thar  in  the 
holler.  They  ain't  got  no  mo'  idea  what  I  come 
fer'n  the  man  in  the  moon ;  yit  they'd  make  a 
mighty  peart  posse.  Tooby  shore,  a  great  big 
man  like  you  ain't  afeard  fer  ter  face  a  little 
bit  er  law." 

Abe  Hightower  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
went  into  the  house.  In  a  few  minutes  he  issued 
forth  and  went  out  to  the  gate  where  the  sheriff 
was.  The  faces  of  the  two  men  were  a  study. 
Neither  betrayed  any  emotion  nor  alluded  to 
the  warrant.  The  sheriff  asked  after  the  "crap" ; 
and  Abe  told  him  it  was  "middlin'  peart,"  and 
asked  him  to  go  into  the  house  and  make  him 
self  at  home  until  the  horse  could  be  saddled. 
After  a  while  the  two  rode  away.  Once  during 
the  ride  Abe  said: 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  145 

"I'm  mighty  glad  it  wa'n't  that  feller  what 
run  ag'in'  you  last  fall,  Dave." 

"Why?"  asked  the  sheriff. 

"Bekaze  I'd  'a'  plugged  him,  certain  an' 
shore,"  said  Abe. 

"Well,"  said  the  sheriff,  laughing,  "I  wuz 
a-wishin'  mighty  hard  thes  about  that  time  that 
the  t'other  feller  had  got  'lected." 

The  warrant  amounted  to  nothing,  and  Abe 
was  soon  at  home  with  his  family;  but  it  suited 
his  high-spirited  daughter  to  twit  him  occa 
sionally  because  of  his  tame  surrender  to  the 
sheriff,  and  it  suited  Dave  to  treat  the  matter 
good-humoredly. 

Abe  Hightower  took  his  way  down  the  moun 
tain  ;  and  about  two  miles  from  his  house,  as  the 
road  ran,  he  met  the  stranger  who  had  attracted 
Babe's  attention.  He  was  a  handsome  young 
fellow,  and  he  was  riding  a  handsome  horse 
— a  gray,  that  was  evidently  used  to  sleeping 
in  a  stable  where  there  was  plenty  of  feed  in  the 
trough. 

The  rider  also  had  a  well-fed  appearance. 
He  sat  his  horse  somewhat  jauntily,  and 
VOL.  3  7 


146  'Free  Joe 

there  was  a  jocund  expression  in  his  features 
very  pleasing  to  behold.  He  drew  rein  as  he 
saw  Abe,  and  gave  a  military  salute  in  a  care 
less,  offhand  way  that  was  in  strict  keeping  with 
his  appearance. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Howdy?"  said  Abe. 

"Fine  day  this." 

"Well,  what  little  I've  saw  of  it  is  purty 
tollerbul." 

The  young  fellow  laughed,  and  his  laughter 
was  worth  hearing.  It  had  the  ring  of  youth 
in  it. 

"Do  you  chance  to  know  a  Mr.  Hightower?" 
he  asked,  throwing  a  leg  over  the  pommel  of  the 
saddle. 

"Do  he  live  anywheres  aroun'  in  these  parts?" 
Abe  inquired. 

"So  I'm  told." 

"Well,  the  reason  I  ast,"  said  Abe,  leaning  his 
rifle  against  a  tree,  "is  bekaze  they  mought  be 
more'n  one  Hightower  runnin'  loose." 

"You  don't  know  him,  then?" 

"I  know  one  on  'em.    Any  business  wi'  him?' 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  147 

"Well,  yes — a  little.  I  was  told  he  lived  on 
this  road.  How  far  is  his  house?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you"— Abe  took  off  his  hat 
and  scratched  his  head — "some  folks  mought 
take  a  notion  hit  wuz  a  long  ways  off,  an'  then, 
ag'in,  yuther  folks  mought  take  a  notion  that  hit 
wuz  lots  nigher.  Hit's  accordin'  to  the  way  you 
look  at  it." 

"Is  Mr.  Hightower  at  home?"  inquired  the 
stranger,  regarding  Abe  with  some  curiosity. 

"Well,"  said  Abe  cautiously,  "I  don't  reckon 
he's  right  slam  bang  at  home,  but  I  lay  he  ain't 
fur  off." 

"If  you  happen  to  see  him,  pray  tell  him 
there's  a  gentleman  at  his  house  who  would  like 
very  much  to  see  him." 

"Well,  I  tell  you  what,  mister,"  said  Abe, 
speaking  very  slowly.  "You're  a  mighty  nice 
young  feller — anybody  kin  shet  the'r  eyes  and 
see  that — but  folks  'roun'  here  is  mighty  kuse; 
they  is  that  away.  Ef  I  was  you,  I'd  thes  turn 
right  'roun'  in  my  tracks  'n'  let  that  ar  Mister 
Hightower  alone.  I  wouldn't  pester  wi'  'im. 
He  hain't  no  fitten  company  fer  you." 


148  Free  Joe 

"Oh,  but  I  must  see  him,"  said  the  stranger. 
"I  have  business  with  him.  Why,  they  told  me 
down  in  the  valley  that  Hightower,  in  many  re 
spects,  is  the  best  man  in  the  county." 

Abe  smiled  for  the  first  time.  It  was  the 
ghost  of  a  smile. 

"Shoo!"  he  exclaimed.  "They  don't  know 
him  down  thar  nigh  as  good  as  he's  know'd  up 
here.  An'  that  hain't  all.  Thish  yer  Mister 
Hightower  you  er  talkin'  about  is  got  a  mighty 
bad  case  of  measles  at  his  house.  You'd  be 
ableedze  to  ketch  'em  ef  you  went  thar." 

"I've  had  the  measles,"  said  the  stranger. 

"But  these  here  measles,"  persisted  Abe,  half 
shutting  his  eyes  and  gazing  at  the  young  man 
steadily,  "kin  be  cotched  twicet.  Thayer  wuss 
'n  the  smallpox — lots  wuss." 

"My  dear  sir,  what  do  you  mean?"  the  young 
man  inquired,  observing  the  significant  em 
phasis  of  the  mountaineer's  language. 

"Hit's  thes  like  I  tell  you,"  said  Abe.  "Looks 
like  folks  has  mighty  bad  luck  when  they  go 
a-rippitin'  hether  an'  yan  on  the  mounting.  It 
hain't  been  sech  a  monst'us  long  time  sense  one 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  149 

er  them  revenue  fellers  come  a-paradin'  up  thish 
yer  same  road,  a-makin'  inquirements  fer  High- 
tower.  He  cotch  the  measles ;  bless  you,  he  took 
an'  cotch  'em  by  the  time  he  got  in  hailin'  dis 
tance  of  Hightower's,  an'  he  had  to  be  toted 
down.  I  disremember  his  name,  but  he  wuz 
a  mighty  nice-lookin'  young  feller,  peart  an' 
soople,  an'  thes  about  your  size  an'  weight." 

"It  was  no  doubt  a  great  pity  about  the  rev 
enue  chap,"  said  the  young  man  sarcastically. 

"Lor',  yes!"  exclaimed  Abe  seriously;  "lots 
er  nice  folks  must  'a'  cried  about  that  man!" 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  smiling,  "I  must  see 
Hightower.  I  guess  he's  a  nicer  man  than  his 
neighbors  think  he  is." 

"Shoo!"  said  Abe,  "he  hain't  a  bit  nicer'n 
what  I  am,  an'  I  lay  he  hain't  no  purtier.  What 
mought  be  your  name,  mister?" 

"My  name  is  Chichester,  and  I'm  buying  land 
for  some  Boston  people.  I  want  to  buy  some 
land  right  on  this  mountain  if  I  can  get  it  cheap 
enough." 

"Jesso,"  said  Abe,  "but  wharbouts  in  thar  do 
Hightower  come  in?" 


150  Free  Joe 

"Oh,  he  knows  all  about  the  mountain,  and  I 
want  to  ask  his  advice  and  get  his  opinions,"  said 
Chichester. 

Something  about  Mr.  Chichester  seemed  to 
attract  Abe  Hightower.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
young  fellow's  fresh,  handsome  appearance; 
perhaps  it  was  his  free-and-easy  attitude,  sug 
gestive  of  the  commercial  tourist,  that  met  the 
approbation  of  the  mountaineer.  At  any  rate, 
Abe  smiled  upon  the  young  man  in  a  fatherly 
way  and  said:  "  'Twixt  you  an'  me  an'  yon  pine, 
you  hain't  got  no  furder  to  go  fer  to  strike  up 
wi'  Hightower.  I'm  the  man  you  er  atter." 

Chichester  regarded  him  with  some  degree  of 
amazement. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  "why  should 
you  desire  to  play  the  sphinx?" 

"Spinks?"  said  Abe,  with  something  like  a 
grimace;  "the  Spinks  famerly  lived  furder  up 
the  mounting,  but  they  er  done  bin  weeded  out 
by  the  revenue  men  too  long  ago  to  talk  about. 
The  ole  man's  in  jail  in  Atlanty  er  some'rs  else, 
the  boys  is  done  run'd  off,  an'  the  gal's  a  trollop. 
No  Spinks  in  mine,  cap',  ef  you  please!" 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  151 

Chichester  laughed  at  the  other's  earnestness. 
He  mistook  it  for  drollery. 

"I  let  you  know,  cap',''  Abe  went  on,  "you 
can't  be  boss  er  your  own  doin's  an'  give  ever' 
passin'  man  your  name." 

"Well,  I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  said  Chi 
chester  heartily;  "I'll  have  a  good  deal  of  busi 
ness  in  this  neighborhood  first  and  last,  and  I'm 
told  there  isn't  anything  worth  knowing  about 
the  mountain  that  you  don't  know." 

"That  kind  er  talk,"  Abe  replied,  "kin  be  run 
in  the  groun',  yit  I  hain't  a-denyin'  but  what 
I've  got  a  kind  er  speakin'  acquaintance  wi'  the 
neighborhood  whar  I'm  a-livin'  at.  Ef  you  er 
huntin'  my  house,  thes  drive  right  on.  I'll  be 
thar  ag'in  you  git  mar." 

Chichester  found  a  very  cordial  welcome 
awaiting  him  when  he  arrived  at  Hightower's 
house.  Even  the  dogs  were  friendly,  and  the 
big  cat  came  out  from  its  hiding-place  to  rub 
against  his  legs  as  he  sat  on  the  little  porch. 

"By  the  time  you  rest  your  face  an'  ban's," 
said  Abe,  "I  reckon  breakfast'll  be  ready." 

Chichester,    who    was    anxious    to    give    no 


152  Free  Joe 

trouble,  explained  that  he  had  had  a  cup  of 
coffee  at  Peevy's  before  starting  up  the  moun 
tain.  He  said,  moreover,  that  the  mountain 
was  so  bracing  that  he  felt  as  if  he  could  fast 
a  week  and  still  fatten. 

"Well,  sir,"  Abe  remarked,  "hit's  mighty  lit 
tle  we  er  got  to  offer,  an'  that  little's  mighty 
common,  but,  sech  as  'tis,  you  er  more'n  wel 
come.  Hit's  diffunt  wi'  me  when  the  mornin' 
air  blows  at  me.  Hit  makes  me  wanter  nibble 
at  somepin'.  I  dunner  whar  you  come  from,  an' 
I  ain't  makin'  no  inquirements,  but  down  in  these 
parts  you  can't  spat  a  man  harder  betwixt  the  eyes 
than  to  set  back  an'  not  break  bread  wi'  'im." 

Mr.  Chichester  had  been  warned  not  to 
wound  the  hospitality  of  the  simple  people 
among  whom  he  was  going,  and  he  was  quick 
to  perceive  that  his  refusal  to  "break  bread" 
with  the  Hightowers  would  be  taken  too  seri 
ously.  Whereupon,  he  made  a  most  substantial 
apology — an  apology  that  took  the  shape  of  a 
ravenous  appetite,  and  did  more  than  justice  to 
Mrs.  Hightower's  fried  chicken,  crisp  biscuits, 
and  genuine  coffee.  Mr.  Chichester  also  made 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  153 

himself  as  agreeable  as  he  knew  how,  and  he 
was  so  pleased  with  the  impression  he  made 
that  he,  on  his  side,  admitted  to  himself  that 
the  Hightowers  were  charmingly  quaint,  espe 
cially  the  shy  girl  of  whom  he  caught  a  brief 
glimpse  now  and  then  as  she  handed  her  mother 
fresh  supplies  of  chicken  and  biscuits. 

There  was  nothing  mysterious  connected  with 
the  visit  of  Mr.  Chichester  to  Lost  Mountain. 
He  was  the  agent  of  a  company  of  Boston  capi 
talists  who  were  anxious  to  invest  money  in 
Georgia  marble  quarries,  and  Chichester  was 
on  Lost  Mountain  for  the  purpose  of  discover 
ing  the  marble  beds  that  had  been  said  by  some 
to  exist  there.  He  had  the  versatility  of  a  mod 
ern  young  man,  being  something  of  a  civil  engi 
neer  and  something  of  a  geologist;  in  fine,  he 
was  one  of  the  many  "general  utility"  men  that 
improved  methods  enable  the  high  schools  and 
colleges  to  turn  out.  He  was  in  the  habit  of 
making  himself  agreeable  wherever  he  went, 
but  behind  his  levity  and  general  good-humor 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  seriousness  and  firm 
ness  of  purpose. 


154  Free  Joe 

He  talked  with  great  freedom  to  the  High- 
towers,  giving  a  sort  of  commercial  coloring,  so 
to  speak,  to  the  plans  of  his  company  with  re 
spect  to  land  investments  on  Lost  Mountain; 
but  he  said  nothing  about  his  quest  for  marble. 

"The  Lord  send  they  won't  be  atter  fetchin' 
the  railroad  kyars  among  us,"  said  Grandsir 
Hightower  fervently. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Chichester,  "there  isn't  much 
danger." 

"Now,  I  dunno  'bout  that,"  said  the  old  man 
querulously,  "I  dunno  'bout  that.  They're  git- 
tin'  so  these  days  they'll  whirl  in  an'  do  e'ena- 
most  anything  what  you  don't  want  'em  to  do. 
I  kin  stan'  out  thar  in  the  boss-lot  any  cle'r  day 
an'  see  the  smoke  er  their  ingines,  an'  sometimes 
hit  looks  like  I  kin  hear  'em  snort  an'  cough. 
They  er  plenty  nigh  enough.  The  Lord  send 
they  won't  fetch  'em  no  nigher.  Fum  Giner'l 
Jackson's  time  plump  tell  now,  they  ere  bin 
a-fetchin'  destruction  to  the  country.  You'll 
see  it.  I  mayn't  see  it  myself,  but  you'll  see  it. 
Fust  hit  was  Giner'l  Jackson  an'  the  bank,  an' 
now  hit's  the  railroad  kyars.  You'll  see  it!" 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  155 

"And  yet,"  said  Chichester,  turning  toward 
the  old  man,  as  Hope  might  beam  benignantly 
on  the  Past,  "everybody  and  everything  seems 
to  be  getting  along  very  well.  I  think  the  only 
thing  necessary  now  is  to  invent  something  or 
other  to  keep  the  cinders  out  of  a  man's  eyes 
when  he  rides  on  the  railroads." 

"Don't  let  'em  fool  you,"  said  the  old  man 
earnestly.  "Ever'thing's  in  a  tangle,  an'  ther 
hain't  no  Whig  party  for  to  entangle  it.  Giner'l 
Jackson  an'  the  cussid  bank  is  what  done  it." 

Just  then  Miss  Babe  came  out  on  the  little 
porch,  and  seated  herself  on  the  bench  that  ran 
across  one  end.  "Cap',"  said  Abe,  with  some 
show  of  embarrassment,  as  if  not  knowing  how 
to  get  through  a  necessary  ceremony,  "this  is  my 
gal,  Babe.  She's  the  oldest  and  the  youngest. 
I'm  name'  Abe  an'  she's  name'  Babe,  sort  er 
rimin'  like." 

The  unaffected  shyness  of  the  young  girl  was 
pleasant  to  behold,  and  if  it  did  not  heighten 
her  beauty,  it  certainly  did  not  detract  from  it. 
It  was  a  shyness  in  which  there  was  not  an  awk 
ward  element,  for  Babe  had  the  grace  of  youth 


156  Free  Joe 

and  beauty,  and  conscious  independence  ani 
mated  all  her  movements. 

"  'Ceppin'  me  an'  the  ole  'oman,"  said  Abe, 
"Babe  is  the  best-lookin'  one  er  the  famerly." 

The  girl  reddened  a  little,  and  laughed 
lightly  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  accustomed 
to  give  and  take  jokes,  but  said  nothing. 

"I  heard  of  Miss  Babe  last  night,"  said  Chi- 
chester,  "and  I've  got  a  message  for  her." 

"Wait !"  exclaimed  Abe  triumphantly ;  "I'll  bet 
a  hoss  I  kin  call  the  name  'thout  movin'  out'n  my 
cheer.  Hold  on !"  he  continued.  I'll  bet  another 
hoss  I  kin  relate  the  message  word  for  word." 

Babe  blushed  violently,  but  laughed  good- 
humoredly.  Chichester  adjusted  himself  at 
once  to  this  unexpected  informality,  and  allowed 
himself  to  become  involved  in  it. 

"Come,  now!"  he  cried,  "I'll  take  the  bet." 

"I  declare!"  said  Mrs.  Hightower,  laughing, 
"you  all  oughtn'  to  pester  Babe  that  away." 

"Wait!"  said  Abe.  "The  name  er  the  man 
what  sont  the  word  is  Tuck  Peevy,  an'  when 
he  know'd  you  was  a-comin'  here,  he  sort  er 
sidled  up  an'  ast  you  for  to  please  be  so  good  as  to 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  157 

tell  Miss  Babe  he'd  drap  in  nex'  Sunday,  an'  see 
what  her  mammy  is  a-gwine  ter  have  for  dinner." 

"Well,  I  have  won  the  bet,"  said  Chichester. 
"Mr.  Peevy  simply  asked  me  to  tell  Miss  Babe 
that  there  would  be  a  singing  at  Philadelphia 
camp-ground  Sunday.  I  hardly  know  what  to 
do  with  two  horses." 

"Maybe  you'll  feel  better,"  said  Abe,  "when 
somebody  tells  you  that  my  hoss  is  a  mule. 
Well,  well,  well!"  he  went  on.  "Tuck  didn't 
say  he  was  comin',  but  I  be  boun'  he  comes,  an' 
more'n  that,  I  be  boun'  a  whole  passel  er  gals 
an'  boys'll  foller  Babe  home." 

"In  giner'lly,"  said  Grandsir  Hightower,  "I 
hate  for  to  make  remarks  'bout  folks  when  they 
hain't  settin'  whar  they  kin  hear  me,  but  that  ar 
Tuck  Peevy  is  got  a  mighty  bad  eye.  I  hearn 
'im  a-quollin'  wi'  one  er  them  Simmons  boys 
las'  Sunday  gone  wuz  a  week,  an'  I  tell  you 
he's  got  the  Ole  Boy  in  'im.  An'  his  appetite's 
wuss'n  his  eye." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Hightower,  "nobody  'roun' 
here  don't  begrudge  him  his  vittles,  I  reckon." 

"Oh,  by  no  means — by  no  manner  er  means," 


158  Free  Joe 

said  the  old  man,  suddenly  remembering  the 
presence  of  Chichester.  "Yit  they  oughter  be 
reason  in  all  things;  that's  what  I  say — reason 
in  all  things,  espeshually  when  hit  comes  to 
gormandizin'." 

The  evident  seriousness  of  the  old  man  was 
very  comical.  He  seemed  to  be  possessed  by 
the  unreasonable  economy  that  not  infrequently 
seizes  on  old  age. 

"They  hain't  no  begrudgin'  'roun'  here,"  he 
went  on.  "Lord!  ef  I'd  'a'  bin  a-begrudgin'  I'd 
'a'  thes  natchally  bin  e't  up  wi'  begrudges.  What 
wer'  the  word  the  poor  creetur  sent  to  Babe?" 

Chichester  repeated  the  brief  and  apparently 
uninteresting  message,  and  Grandsir  Hightower 
groaned  dismally. 

"I  dunner  what  sot  him  so  ag'in'  Tuck  Peevy," 
said  Abe,  laughing.  "Tuck's  e'en  about  the 
peartest  chap  in  the  settlement,  an'  a  mighty 
handy  man,  put  him  whar  you  will." 

"Why,  Aberham!"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
"you  go  on  like  a  man  what's  done  gone  an' 
took  leave  of  his  sev'm  senses.  You  dunner 
what  sot  me  ag'in'  the  poor  creetur?  Why, 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  159 

time  an'  time  ag'in  I've  tol'  you  it's  his  ongodly 
hankerin'  after  the  flesh-pots.  The  Bible's  ag'in' 
it,  an'  I'm  ag'in'  it.  Wharbouts  is  it  put  down 
that  a  man  is  ever  foun'  grace  in  the  cubberd?" 

"Well,  I  lay  a  man  that  works  is  boun'  ter 
eat,"  said  Abe. 

"Oh,  7  hain't  no  'count — /  can't  work,"  said 
the  old  man,  his  wrath,  which  had  been  wrought 
to  a  high  pitch,  suddenly  taking  the  shape  of 
plaintive  humility.  "Yit  'tain't  for  long.  /'// 
soon  be  out'n  the  way,  Aberham." 

"Shoo!"  said  Abe,  placing  his  hand  affec 
tionately  on  the  old  man's  shoulder.  "You  er 
mighty  nigh  as  spry  as  a  kitten.  Babe,  honey, 
fill  your  grandsir's  pipe.  He's  a-missin'  his 
mornin'  smoke." 

Soothed  by  his  pipe,  the  old  man  seemed  to 
forget  the  existence  of  Tuck  Peevy,  and  his 
name  came  up  for  discussion  no  more. 

But  Chichester,  being  a  man  of  quick  percep 
tions,  gathered  from  the  animosity  of  the  old 
man,  and  the  rather  uneasy  attitude  of  Miss 
Babe,  that  the  discussion  of  Peevy's  appetite 
had  its  origin  in  the  lover-like  attentions  which 


160  Free  Joe 

he  had  been  paying  to  the  girl.  Certainly 
Peevy  was  excusable,  and  if  his  attentions  had 
been  favorably  received,  he  was  to  be  congratu 
lated,  Chichester  thought;  for  in  all  that  region 
it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  a  lovelier 
specimen  of  budding  womanhood  than  the 
young  girl  who  had  striven  so  unsuccessfully 
to  hide  her  embarrassment  as  her  grandfather 
proceeded,  with  the  merciless  recklessness  of 
age,  to  criticize  Peevy's  strength  and  weakness 
as  a  trencherman. 

As  Chichester  had  occasion  to  discover  after 
ward,  Peevy  had  his  peculiarities;  but  he  did 
not  seem  to  be  greatly  different  from  other 
young  men  to  be  found  in  that  region.  One 
of  his  peculiarities  was  that  he  never  argued 
about  anything.  He  had  opinions  on  a  great 
many  subjects,  but  his  reasons  for  holding  his 
opinions  he  kept  to  himself.  The  arguments 
of  those  who  held  contrary  views  he  would  listen 
to  with  great  patience,  even  with  interest;  but 
his  only  reply  would  be  a  slow,  irritating  smile 
and  a  shake  of  the  head.  Peevy  was  homely, 
but  there  was  nothing  repulsive  about  his  home- 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  161 

liness.  He  was  tall  and  somewhat  angular;  he 
was  sallow;  he  had  high  cheek-bones,  and  small 
eyes  that  seemed  to  be  as  alert  and  as  watchful 
as  those  of  a  ferret;  and  he  was  slow  and  delib 
erate  in  all  his  movements,  taking  time  to  digest 
and  consider  his  thoughts  before  replying  to  the 
simplest  question,  and  even  then  his  reply  was 
apt  to  be  evasive.  But  he  was  good-humored 
and  obliging,  and,  consequently,  was  well 
thought  of  by  his  neighbors  and  acquaintances. 

There  was  one  subject  in  regard  to  which  he 
made  no  concealment,  and  that  was  his  admira 
tion  for  Miss  Babe  Hightower.  So  far  as  Peevy 
was  concerned,  she  was  the  one  woman  in  the 
world.  His  love  for  her  was  a  passion  at  once 
patient,  hopeful,  and  innocent.  He  displayed 
his  devotion  less  in  words  than  in  his  attitude; 
and  so  successful  had  he  been  that  it  was  gener 
ally  understood  that  by  camp-meeting  time  Miss 
Babe  Hightower  would  be  Mrs.  Tuck  Peevy. 
That  is  to  say,  it  was  understood  by  all  except 
Grandsir  Hightower,  who  was  apt  to  chuckle 
sarcastically  when  the  subject  was  broached. 

"They  hain't  arry  livin'  man,"  he  would  say, 


1 62  Free  Joe 

"what's  ever  seed  anybody  wi'  them  kind  er  eyes 
settled  down  an'  married.  No,  sirs!  Hit's  the 
vittles  Tuck  Peevy's  after.  Why,  bless  your  soul 
an'  body!  he  thes  natchally  dribbles  at  the  mouth 
when  he  gits  a  whirl  from  the  dinner-pot." 

Certainly  no  one  would  have  supposed  that 
Tuck  Peevy  ever  had  a  sentimental  emotion  or 
a  romantic  notion,  but  Grandsir  Hightower  did 
him  great  injustice.  Behind  his  careless  serenity 
he  was  exceedingly  sensitive.  It  is  true  he  was 
a  man  difficult  to  arouse;  but  he  was  what  his 
friends  called  "a  mighty  tetchy  man"  on  some 
subjects,  and  one  of  these  subjects  was  Babe. 
Another  was  the  revenue  men.  It  was  generally 
supposed  by  Peevy's  acquaintances  on  Lost  Moun 
tain  that  he  had  a  moonshine  apparatus  over  on 
Sweetwater;  but  this  supposition  was  the  result, 
doubtless,  of  his  well-known  prejudice  against 
the  deputies  sent  out  to  enforce  the  revenue  laws. 

It  had  been  the  intention  of  Chichester  to  re 
main  only  a  few  days  in  that  neighborhood;  but 
the  Hightowers  were  so  hospitably  inclined, 
and  the  outcroppings  of  minerals  so  interesting, 
that  his  stay  was  somewhat  prolonged.  Natu- 


Trouble  on  Lost  'Mountain  163 

rally,  he  saw  a  good  deal  of  Peevy,  who  knew 
all  about  the  mountain,  and  who  was  frequently 
able  to  go  with  him  on  his  little  excursions  when 
Abe  Hightower  was  otherwise  engaged.  Natu 
rally  enough,  too,  Chichester  saw  a  great  deal  of 
Babe.  He  was  interested  in  her  because  she  was 
young  and  beautiful,  and  because  of  her  quaint 
individuality.  She  was  not  only  unconventional, 
but  charmingly  so.  Her  crudeness  and  her  igno 
rance  seemed  to  be  merely  phases  of  originality. 
Chichester's  interest  in  Babe  was  that  of  a 
studiously  courteous  and  deferent  observer,  but 
it  was  jealously  noted  and  resented  by  Tuck 
Peevy.  The  result  of  this  was  not  at  first  appar 
ent.  For  a  time  Peevy  kept  his  jealous  sugges 
tions  to  himself,  but  he  found  it  impossible  to 
conceal  their  effect.  Gradually,  he  held  himself 
aloof,  and  finally  made  it  a  point  to  avoid  Chi 
chester  altogether.  For  a  time  Babe  made  the 
most  of  her  lover's  jealousy.  After  the  manner 
of  her  sex,  she  was  secretly  delighted  to  discover 
that  he  was  furious  at  the  thought  that  she  might 
inadvertently  have  cast  a  little  bit  of  a  smile  at 
Mr.  Chichester;  and  on  several  occasions  she 


164  Free  'Joe 

heartily  enjoyed  Peevy's  angry  suspicions.  But 
after  a  while  she  grew  tired  of  such  inconsistent 
and  foolish  manifestations.  They  made  her  un 
happy,  and  she  was  too  vigorous  and  too  practi 
cal  to  submit  to  unhappiness  with  that  degree 
of  humility  which  her  more  cultivated  sisters 
sometimes  exhibit.  One  Sunday  afternoon, 
knowing  Chichester  to  be  away,  Tuck  Peevy 
sauntered  carelessly  into  Hightower's  yard,  and 
seated  himself  on  the  steps  of  the  little  porch. 
It  was  his  first  visit  for  several  days,  and  Babe 
received  him  with  an  air  of  subdued  coolness  and 
indifference  that  did  credit  to  her  sex. 

"Wharbouts  is  your  fine  gent  this  mornin'?" 
inquired  Peevy,  after  a  while. 

"Wharbouts  is  who?" 

"Your  fine  gent  wi'  the  sto'-clo'es  on." 

"I  reckon  you  mean  Cap'n  Chichester,  don't 
you?"  inquired  Babe  innocently. 

"Oh,  yes!"  exclaimed  Peevy;  "he's  the  chap 
I'm  a-making  my  inquirements  atter." 

"He's  over  on  Sweetwater,  I  reckon.  Least 
ways  thar's  whar  he  started  to  go." 

"On  Sweetwater.     Oh,  yes!"     Peevy  paused 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  165 

and  ran  his  long  slim  fingers  through  his  thin 
straight  hair.  "I'm  mighty  much  afeard,"  he 
went  on  after  a  pause,  "that  that  fine  gent  o' 
yourn  is  a-gwine  ter  turn  out  for  to  be  a  snake. 
That's  what  I'm  afeard  un." 

"Well,"  said  Babe,  with  irritating  coolness, 
ahe  don't  do  any  of  his  sneakin'  aroun'  here.  Ef 
he  sneaks,  he  goes  some'ers  else  to  sneak.  He 
don't  hang  aroun'  an'  watch  his  chance  to  drap 
in  an'  pay  his  calls.  I  reckon  he'd  walk  right  in 
at  the  gate  thar  ef  he  know'd  the  Gov'ner  er  the 
State  wuz  a-settin'  here.  I'm  mighty  glad  I 
hain't  saw  none  er  his  sneakin'." 

Peevy  writhed  under  this  comment  on  his 
own  actions,  but  said  nothing  in  reply. 

"You  don't  come  to  see  folks  like  you  useter," 
said  Babe,  softening  a  little.  "I  reckon  you  er 
mighty  busy  down  thar  wi'  your  craps." 

Peevy  smiled  until  he  showed  his  yellow  teeth. 
It  was  not  intended  to  be  a  pleasant  smile. 

"I  reckon  I  come  lots  more'n  I'm  wanted," 
he  replied.  "I  hain't  got  much  sense,"  he  went 
on,  "but  I  got  a  leetle  bit,  an'  I  know  when  my 
room's  wuth  more'n  my  comp'ny." 


1 66  'Free  Jot 

"Your  hints  has  got  more  wings'n  stings," 
said  Babe.  "But  ef  I  had  in  my  min'  what  you 
er  got  in  yourn — " 

"Don't  say  the  word,  Babe!"  exclaimed  Peevy, 
for  the  first  time  fixing  his  restless  eyes  on  her 
face.  "Don't!" 

"Yes,  I'll  say  it,"  said  Babe  solemnly.  "I 
oughter  'a'  said  it  a  long  time  ago  when  you 
wuz  a-cuttin'  up  your  capers  bekaze  Phli  Varna- 
doe  wuz  a-comin'  here  to  see  Pap.  I  oughter  'a' 
said  it  then,  but  I'll  say  it  now,  right  pine-blank. 
Ef  I  had  in  my  min'  what  you  er  got  in  yourn, 
I  wouldn't  never  darken  this  door  no  more." 

Peevy  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
porch.  He  was  deeply  moved,  but  his  face 
showed  his  emotion  only  by  a  slight  increase  of 
sallowness.  Finally  he  paused,  looking  at  Babe. 

"I  lay  you'd  be  mighty  glad  ef  I  didn't  come 
no  more,"  he  said,  with  a  half  smile.  "I  reckon 
it  kinder  rankles  you  for  to  see  old  Tuck  Peevy 
a-hangin'  roun'  when  the  t'other  feller's  in 
sight."  Babe's  only  reply  was  a  scornful  toss  of 
the  head. 

"Oh,  yes!"  Peevy  went  on,  "hit  rankles  you 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  167 

might'ly;  yit  I  lay  it  won't  rankle  you  so  much 
atter  your  daddy  is  took  an'  jerked  off  to  Atlanty. 
I  tell  you,  Babe,  that  ar  man  is  one  er  the  rev 
enues — they  hain't  no  two  ways  about  that." 

Babe  regarded  her  angry  lover  seriously. 

"Hit  ain't  no  wonder  you  make  up  your  min' 
ag'in'  him  when  you  er  done  made  it  up  ag'in' 
me.  I  know  in  reason  they  must  be  somep'n 
'nother  wrong  when  a  great  big  grown  man  kin 
work  hisself  up  to  holdin'  spite.  Goodness 
knows,  I  wish  you  wuz  like  you  useter  be  when 
I  fust  know'd  you/' 

Peevy's  sallow  face  flushed  a  little  at  the  re 
membrance  of  those  pleasant,  peaceful  days;  but, 
somehow,  the  memory  of  them  had  the  effect  of 
intensifying  his  jealous  mood. 

"  'Tain't  me  that's  changed  aroun',"  he 
exclaimed  passionately,  "an'  'tain't  the  days 
nuther.  Hit's  you — you!  An'  that  fine  gent 
that's  a  hanging  roun'  here  is  the  'casion  of  it. 
Ever'whar  I  go,  hit's  the  talk.  Babe,  you  know 
you  er  lovin'  that  man!" 

Peevy  was  wide  of  the  mark,  but  the  accusa 
tion  was  so  suddenly  and  so  bluntly  made  that 


1 68  Free  Joe 

it  brought  the  blood  to  Babe's  face — a  tremu 
lous  flush  that  made  her  fairly  radiant  for  a  mo 
ment.  Undoubtedly  Mr.  Chichester  had  played 
a  very  pleasing  part  in  her  youthful  imagina 
tion,  but  never  for  an  instant  had  he  superseded 
the  homely  figure  of  Tuck  Peevy.  The  knowl 
edge  that  she  was  blushing  gave  Babe  an  excuse 
for  indignation  that  women  are  quick  to  take 
advantage  of.  She  was  so  angry,  indeed,  that 
she  made  another  mistake. 

"Why,  Tuck  Peevy!"  she  cried,  "you  shorely 
must  be  crazy.  He  wouldn't  wipe  his  feet  on 
sech  as  me!" 

"No,"  said  Peevy,  "I  'lowed  he  wouldn't,  an' 
I  'lowed  as  how  you  wouldn't  wipe  your  feet  on 
me."  He  paused  a  moment,  still  smiling  his 
peculiar  smile.  "Hit's  a  long  ways  down  to 
Peevy,  ain't  it?" 

"You  er  doin'  all  the  belittlin',"  said  Babe. 

"Oh,  no,  Babe!  Ever'thing's  changed.  Why, 
even  them  dogs  barks  atter  me.  Ever'thing's 
turned  wrong-sud-outerds.  An'  you  er  changed 
wuss'n  all." 

"Well,  you  don't  reckon  I'm  a-gwine  ter  run 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  169 

out'n  the  gate  thar  an'  fling  myself  at  you,  do 
you?"  exclaimed  Babe. 

"No,  I  don't.  I've  thes  come  to-day  for  to 
git  a  cle'r  understan'in'."  He  hesitated  a  mo 
ment  and  then  went  on:  "Babe,  will  you  marry 
me  to-morrow?"  He  asked  the  question  with 
more  eagerness  than  he  had  yet  displayed. 

"No,  I  won't!"  exclaimed  Babe,  "ner  the  nex' 
day  nuther.  The  man  I  marry'll  have  a  lots  bet 
ter  opinion  of  me  than  what  you  er  got." 

Babe  was  very  indignant,  but  she  paused  to 
see  what  effect  her  words  would  have.  Peevy 
rubbed  his  hands  nervously  together,  but  he 
made  no  response.  His  serenity  was  more  puz 
zling  than  that  of  the  mountain.  He  still  smiled 
vaguely,  but  it  was  not  a  pleasing  smile.  He 
looked  hard  at  Babe  for  a  moment,  and  then 
down  at  his  clumsy  feet.  His  agitation  was 
manifest,  but  it  did  not  take  the  shape  of  words. 
In  the  trees  overhead  two  jays  were  quarreling 
with  a  catbird,  and  in  the  upper  air  a  bee- 
martin  was  fiercely  pursuing  a  sparrow-hawk. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  "I  reckon  I 

better  be  gwine." 
VOL.  3  8 


170  'Free  Joe 

"Wait  till  your  hurry's  over,"  said  Babe,  in  a 
gentler  tone. 

Peevy  made  no  reply,  but  passed  out  into 
the  road  and  disappeared  down  the  mountain. 
Babe  followed  him  to  the  gate,  and  stood  look 
ing  after  him;  but  he  turned  his  head  neither  to 
the  right  nor  to  the  left,  and  in  a  little  while  she 
went  into  the  house  with  her  head  bent  upon  her 
bosom.  She  was  weeping.  Grandsir  Hightower, 
who  had  shuffled  out  on  the  porch  to  sun  him 
self,  stared  at  the  girl  with  amazement. 

"Why,  honey!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  upon  the 
top  side  er  the  yeth  ails  you?" 

"Tuck  has  gone  home  mad,  an'  he  won't  never 
come  back  no  more,"  she  cried. 
"What's  the  matter  wi'  'im?" 
"Oh,  he's  thes  mad  along  er  me." 
"Well, well,  well !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  fum 
bling  feebly  in  his  pockets  for  his  red  bandanna 
handkerchief,  "what  kind  of  a  come-off  is  this? 
Did  you  ast  him  to  stay  to  dinner,  honey?" 
"No — no;  he  didn't  gimme  a  chance." 
"I  'lowed  you   didn't,"  exclaimed  Grandsir 
Hightower    triumphantly.      "I    thes    natchally 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  171 

'lowed  you  didn't.  That's  what  riled  'im.  An' 
now  he'll  go  off  an'  vilify  you.  Well,  well,  well! 
he's  missed  his  dinner!  The  fust  time  in  many's 
the  long  day.  Watch  'im,  Babe!  Watch  'im, 
honey!  The  Ole  Boy's  in  'im.  I  know  'im; 
I've  kep'  my  two  eyes  on  'im.  For  a  mess  er 
turnip-greens  an'  dumperlin's  that  man  'u'd  do 
murder."  The  old  man  paused  and  looked  all 
around,  as  if  by  that  means  to  dissipate  a  sus 
picion  that  he  was  dreaming.  "An'  so  Tuck 
missed  his  dinner!  Tooby  shore — tooby  shore!" 

"Oh,  hit  ain't  that,"  cried  Babe;  "he's  jealous 
of  Cap'n  Chichester." 

"Why,  the  good  Lord,  honey!  what  makes 
you  run  on  that  way?" 

"He  tol'  me  so,"  said  Babe. 

"Jealous!"  exclaimed  Grandsir  Hightower, 
"jealous  er  that  young  feller!  Merciful  powers, 
honey!  he's  a-begrudgin'  'im  the  vittles  what  he 
eats.  I  know'd  it  the  minnit  I  seed  'im  come 
a-sa'nterin'  in  the  yard.  Lord,  Lord!  I  wish  in 
my  soul  the  poor  creetur  could  git  a  chance  at 
one  er  them  ar  big  Whig  barbecues  what  they 
useter  have." 


172  Free  Joe 

But  there  was  small  consolation  in  all  this  for 
Babe;  and  she  went  into  the  house,  where  her 
forlorn  appearance  attracted  the  attention  of  her 
mother.  "Why,  Babe!  what  in  the  worl'!" 
exclaimed  this  practical  woman,  dropping  her 
work  in  amazement.  "What  in  the  name  er 
sense  ails  you?"  Babe  had  no  hesitation  in  tell 
ing  her  mother  the  facts. 

"Well,  my  goodness!"  was  Mrs.  Hightower's 
comment,  "I  wouldn't  go  aroun'  whinin'  about 
it,  ef  I  wuz  you — that  I  wouldn't.  Nobody 
never  ketched  me  whinin'  'roun'  atter  your 
pappy  'fore  we  wuz  married,  an'  he  wuz  lots 
purtier  than  what  Tuck  Peevy  is.  When  your 
pappy  got  tetchy,  I  thes  says  to  myself,  s'l :  'Ef 
I'm  wuth  havin',  I'm  wuth  scramblin'  atter;'  an' 
ef  your  pappy  hadn't  'a'  scrambled  an'  scuffled 
'roun'  he  wouldn't  'a'  got  me  nuther,  ef  I  do  up 
an'  say  it  myself.  I'd  a  heap  druther  see  you 
fillin'  them  slays  an'  a-fixin'  up  for  to  weave 
your  pappy  some  shirts,  than  to  see  you  a-whin- 
in'  'roun'  atter  any  chap  on  the  top  side  er  the 
yeth,  let  'lone  Tuck  Peevy." 

There  was  little  consolation  even  in  this,  but 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  173 

Babe  went  about  her  simple  duties  with  some 
show  of  spirit;  and  when  her  father  and  Chi- 
chester  returned  from  their  trip  on  Sweetwater, 
it  would  have  required  a  sharp  eye  to  discover 
that  Babe  regarded  herself  as  "wearing  the 
green  willow."  For  a  few  days  she  avoided 
Chichester,  as  if  to  prove  her  loyalty  to  Peevy; 
but  as  Peevy  was  not  present  to  approve  her  con 
duct  or  to  take  advantage  of  it,  she  soon  grew 
tired  of  playing  an  unnecessary  part.  Peevy 
persisted  in  staying  away;  and  the  result  was 
that  Babe's  anger — a  healthy  quality  in  a  young 
girl — got  the  better  of  her  grief.  Then  wonder 
took  the  place  of  anger;  but  behind  it  all  was 
the  hope  that  before  many  days  Peevy  would 
saunter  into  the  house,  armed  with  his  inscrut 
able  smile,  and  inquire,  as  he  had  done  a  hun 
dred  times  before,  how  long  before  dinner  would 
be  ready.  This  theory  was  held  by  Grandsir 
Hightower,  but,  as  it  was  a  very  plausible  one, 
Babe  adopted  it  as  her  own. 

Meanwhile,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  two 
lovers,  one  sulking  and  the  other  sighing,  had 
any  influence  on  the  season.  The  spring  had 


174  Free  Joe 

made  some  delay  in  the  valley  before  taking 
complete  possession  of  the  mountain,  but  this 
delay  was  not  significant.  Even  on  the  moun 
tain,  the  days  began  to  suggest  the  ardor  of  sum 
mer.  The  air  was  alternately  warm  and  hazy, 
and  crisp  and  clear.  One  day  Kenesaw  would 
cast  aside  its  atmospheric  trappings,  and  appear 
to  lie  within  speaking  distance  of  Hightower's 
door;  the  next,  it  would  withdraw  behind  its 
blue  veil,  and  seem  far  enough  away  to  belong 
to  another  world.  On  Hightower's  farm  the 
corn  was  high  enough  to  whet  its  green  sabres 
against  the  wind.  One  eveningChichester,  High- 
tower,  and  Babe  sat  on  the  little  porch  with  their 
faces  turned  toward  Kenesaw.  They  had  been 
watching  a  line  of  blue  smoke  on  the  mountain 
in  the  distance;  and,  as  the  twilight  deepened 
into  dusk,  they  saw  that  the  summit  of  Kenesaw 
was  crowned  by  a  thin  fringe  of  fire.  As  the 
darkness  gathered,  the  bright  belt  of  flame  pro 
jected  against  the  vast  expanse  of  night  seemed 
to  belong  to  the  vision  of  St.  John. 

"It  looks  like  a  picture  out  of  the   Bible," 
suggested  Chichester  somewhat  vaguely. 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  175 

"It's  wuss'n  that,  I  reckon,"  said  Abe.  "Some 
un's  a-losin'  a  mighty  sight  of  fencin';  an'  tim 
ber's  timber  these  days,  lemme  tell  you." 

"Maybe  someun's  a-burnin'  bresh,"  said  Babe. 

"Bless  you!  they  don't  pile  bresh  in  a  streak  a 
mile  long,"  said  Abe. 

The  thin  line  of  fire  crept  along  slowly,  and 
the  people  on  the  little  porch  sat  and  watched  it. 
Occasionally  it  would  crawl  to  the  top  of  a  dead 
pine,  and  leave  a  fiery  signal  flaming  in  the  air. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Peevy?"  asked  Chi- 
chester.  "I  met  him  on  the  mountain  the  other 
day,  and  he  seemed  not  to  know  me." 

"He  don't  know  anybody  aroun'  here,"  said 
Babe  with  a  sigh. 

"Hit's  thes  some  er  his  an'  Babe's  capers," 
Hightower  remarked  with  a  laugh.  "They 
er  bin  a-cuttin'  up  this  away  now  gwine  on 
two  year'.  I  reckon  ag'in'  camp-meetin'  time 
Tuck'll  drap  in  an'  make  hisself  know'd.  Gals 
and  boys  is  mighty  funny  wi'  the'r  gwines-on." 

After  a  little,  Abe  went  into  the  house,  and 
left  the  young  people  to  watch  the  fiery  proces 
sion  on  Kenesaw. 


176  Free  Joe 

"The  next  time  I  see  Peevy,"  said  Chichester 
gallantly,  "I'll  take  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  show 
him  the  road  to  Beauty's  bower." 

"Well,  you  nee'nter  pester  wi'  'im  on  account 
of  me,"  said  Babe.  Chichester  laughed.  The 
fact  that  so  handsome  a  girl  as  Babe  should  de 
liberately  fall  in  love  with  so  lank  and  ungainly 
a  person  as  Tuck  Peevy  seemed  to  him  to  be  one 
of  the  problems  that  philosophers  ought  to  con 
cern  themselves  with;  but,  from  his  point  of 
view,  the  fact  that  Babe  had  not  gradually  faded 
away,  according  to  the  approved  rules  of  ro 
mance,  was  entirely  creditable  to  human  nature 
on  the  mountain.  A  candle,  burning  in  the  room 
that  Chichester  occupied,  shone  through  the  win 
dow  faintly,  and  fell  on  Babe,  while  Chichester 
sat  in  the  shadow.  As  they  were  talking,  a  mock 
ing-bird  in  the  apple  trees  awoke,  and  poured 
into  the  ear  of  night  a  flood  of  delicious  melody. 
Hearing  this,  Babe  seized  Chichester's  hat,  and 
placed  it  on  her  head. 

"There  must  be  some  omen  in  that,"  said  Chi 
chester. 

"They   say,"    said    Babe,    laughing   merrily, 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  177 

"that  ef  a  gal  puts  on  a  man's  hat  when  she 
hears  a  mocker  sing  at  night,  she'll  get  married 
that  year  an'  do  well." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  I  haven't  got  a  bonnet  to  put 
on,"  exclaimed  Chichester. 

"Oh,  it  don't  work  that  away!"  cried  Babe. 

The  mocking-bird  continued  to  sing,  and 
finally  brought  its  concert  to  a  close  by  giving 
a  most  marvelous  imitation  of  the  liquid,  sil 
very  chimes  of  the  wood-thrush. 

There  was  a  silence  for  one  brief  moment. 
Then  there  was  a  red  flash  under  the  apple 
trees  followed  by  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle. 
There  was  another  brief  moment  of  silence,  and 
then  the  young  girl  sighed  softly,  leaned  for 
ward,  and  fell  from  her  chair. 

"What's  this?"  cried  Abe,  coming  to  the 
door. 

"The  Lord  only  knows!"  exclaimed  Chiches 
ter.  "Look  at  your  daughter!" 

Abe  stepped  forward,  and  touched  the  girl  on 
the  shoulder.  Then  he  shook  her  gently,  as  he  had 
a  thousand  times  when  rousing  her  from  sleep. 

"Babe!  git  up!    Git  up,  honey,  an'  go  in  the 


178  Free  Joe 

house.  You  ought  to  'a'  been  abed  long  ago. 
Git  up  honey."  Chichester  stood  like  one  para 
lyzed.  For  the  moment  he  was  incapable  of 
either  speech  or  action. 

"I  know  what  sh'e  atter,"  said  Abe  tenderly. 
"You  wouldn't  believe  it  skacely,  but  this  yer 
great  big  chunk  of  a  gal  wants  her  ole  pappy 
to  pick  her  up  an'  tote  her  thes  like  he  useter 
when  she  was  er  little  bit  of  a  scrap." 

"I  think  she  has  been  shot,"  said  Chichester. 
To  his  own  ears  his  voice  seemed  to  be  the  voice 
of  some  other  man. 

"Shot!"  exclaimed  Abe.  "Why,  who's 
a-gwine  to  shoot  Babe?  Lord,  Cap'n!  you 
dunner  nothin'  'tall  'bout  Babe  ef  you  talk  that 
away. — Come  on,  honey."  With  that  Abe  lifted 
his  child  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her  into  the 
house.  Chichester  followed.  All  his  faculties 
were  benumbed,  and  he  seemed  to  be  walking 
in  a  dream.  It  seemed  that  no  such  horrible 
confusion  as  that  by  which  he  was  surrounded 
could  have  the  remotest  relation  to  reality. 

Nevertheless,  it  did  not  add  to  his  surprise 
and  consternation  to  find,  when  Abe  had  placed 


Trouble  on  Lost  -Mountain  179 

the  girl  on  her  bed,  that  she  was  dead.  A  little 
red  spot  on  her  forehead,  half-hidden  by  the 
glossy  curling  hair,  showed  that  whoever  held 
the  rifle  aimed  it  well. 

"Why,  honey,"  said  Abe,  wiping  away  the 
slight  blood-stain  that  showed  itself,  "you  struck 
your  head  a'in'  a  nail.  Git  up!  you  oughtn't  to 
be  a-gwine  on  this  away  before  comp'ny." 

"I  tell  you  she  is  dead!"  cried  Chichester. 
"She  has  been  murdered!"  The  girl's  mother 
had  already  realized  this  fact,  and  her  tearless 
grief  was  something  pitiful  to  behold.  The 
gray-haired  grandfather  had  also  realized  it. 

"I'd  druther  see  her  a-lyin'  thar  dead,"  he  ex 
claimed,  raising  his  weak  and  trembling  hands 
heavenward,  than  to  see  her  Tuck  Peevy's  wife." 

"Why,  gentermen!"  exclaimed  Abe,  "how  kin 
she  be  dead?  I  oughter  know  my  own  gal,  I 
reckon.  Many's  an'  many's  the  time  she's  wor 
ried  me,  a-playin'  'possum,  an'  many's  an'  many's 
the  time  has  I  sot  by  her  waitin'  tell  she  let  on  to 
wake  up.  Don't  you  all  pester  wi'  her.  She'll 
wake  up  therreckly." 

At  this  juncture  Tuck  Peevy  walked  into  the 


i8o  Free  Joe 

room.  There  was  a  strange  glitter  in  his  eyes, 
a  new  energy  in  his  movements.  Chichester 
sprang  at  him,  seized  him  by  the  throat,  and 
dragged  him  to  the  bedside. 

"You  cowardly,  skulking  murderer!"  he  ex 
claimed,  "see  what  you  have  done!" 

Peevy's  sallow  face  grew  ashen.  He  seemed 
to  shrink  and  collapse  under  Chichester's  hand. 
His  breath  came  thick  and  short.  His  long, 
bony  fingers  clutched  nervously  at  his  clothes. 

"I  aimed  at  the  hat!"  he  exclaimed  huskily. 

He  would  have  leaned  over  the  girl,  but  Chi 
chester  flung  him  away  from  the  bedside,  and 
he  sank  down  in  a  corner,  moaning  and  shaking. 
Abe  took  no  notice  of  Peevy's  entrance,  and  paid 
no  attention  to  the  crouching  figure  mumbling 
in  the  corner,  except,  perhaps,  so  far  as  he 
seemed  to  recognize  in  Chichester's  attack  on 
Peevy  a  somewhat  vigorous  protest  against  his 
own  theory;  for,  when  there  was  comparative 
quiet  in  the  room,  Hightower  raised  himself, 
and  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  that  showed  both  impa 
tience  and  excitement: 

"Why,  great  God  A'mighty,  gentermen,  don't 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  181 

go  on  that  way!  They  hain't  no  harm  done. 
Thes  let  us  alone.  Me  an'  Babe's  all  right. 
She's  bin  a-playin'  this  away  ev'ry  sence  she  wuz 
a  little  bit  of  a  gal.  Don't  less  make  her  mad, 
gentermen,  bekaze  ef  we  do  she'll  take  plum  tell 
day  atter  to-morrer  for  to  come  'roun'  right." 

Looking  closely  at  Hightower,  Chichester 
could  see  that  his  face  was  colorless.  His  eyes 
were  sunken,  but  shone  with  a  peculiar  bril 
liancy,  and  great  beads  of  perspiration  stood  on 
his  forehead.  His  whole  appearance  was  that 
of  a  man  distraught.  Here  was  another  tragedy! 

Seeking  a  momentary  escape  from  the  confu 
sion  and  perplexity  into  which  he  had  been 
plunged  by  the  horrible  events  of  the  night, 
Chichester  passed  out  into  the  yard,  and  stood 
bareheaded  in  the  cool  wind  that  was  faintly 
stirring  among  the  trees.  The  stars  shone  re 
mote  and  tranquil,  and  the  serenity  of  the  moun 
tain,  the  awful  silence  that  seemed  to  be,  not  the 
absence  of  sound,  but  the  presence  of  some  spirit 
ual  entity,  gave  assurance  of  peace.  Out  there, 
in  the  cold  air,  or  in  the  wide  skies,  or  in  the  vast 
gulf  of  night,  there  was  nothing  to  suggest  either 


1 82  Free  Joe 

pity  or  compassion — only  the  mysterious  tran 
quillity  of  nature. 

This  was  the  end,  so  far  as  Chichester  knew. 
He  never  entered  the  Hightower  house  again. 
Something  prompted  him  to  saddle  his  horse 
and  ride  down  the  mountain.  The  tragedy  and 
its  attendant  troubles  were  never  reported  in  the 
newspapers.  The  peace  of  the  mountain  re 
mained  undisturbed,  its  silence  unbroken. 

But  should  Chichester,  who  at  last  accounts 
was  surveying  a  line  of  railway  in  Mexico,  ever 
return  to  Lost  Mountain,  he  would  find  Tuck 
Peevy  a  gaunt  and  shrunken  creature,  working 
on  the  Hightower  farm,  and  managing  such  of 
its  small  affairs  as  call  for  management.  Some 
times,  when  the  day's  work  is  over,  and  Peevy 
sits  at  the  fireside  saying  nothing,  Abe  High- 
tower  will  raise  a  paralytic  hand,  and  cry  out 
as  loud  as  he  can  that  it's  almost  time  for  Babe 
to  quit  playing  'possum.  At  such  times  we  may 
be  sure  that,  so  far  as  Peevy  is  concerned,  there 
is  still  trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 


AZALIA 


Miss  HELEN  OSBORNE  EUSTIS  of  Boston  was 
very  much  astonished  one  day  in  the  early  fall 
of  1873  to  receive  a  professional  visit  from  Dr. 
Ephraim  Buxton,  who  for  many  years  had  been 
her  father's  family  physician.  The  astonish 
ment  was  mutual;  for  Dr.  Buxton  had  expected 
to  find  Miss  Eustis  in  bed,  or  at  least  in  the 
attitude  of  a  patient,  whereas  she  was  seated  in 
an  easy  chair,  before  a  glowing  grate — which 
the  peculiarities  of  the  Boston  climate  sometimes 
render  necessary,  even  in  the  early  fall — and  ap 
peared  to  be  about  as  comfortable  as  a  human 
being  could  well  be.  Perhaps  the  appearance 
of  comfort  was  heightened  by  the  general  air  of 
subdued  luxury  that  pervaded  the  apartment 
into  which  Dr.  Buxton  had  been  ushered.  The 
draperies,  the  arrangement  of  the  little  affairs 

183 


184  Free  Joe 

that  answer  to  the  name  of  bric-a-brac,  the 
adjustment  of  the  furniture — everything — con 
veyed  the  impression  of  peace  and  repose;  and 
the  chief  element  of  this  perfect  harmony  was 
Miss  Eustis  herself,  who  rose  to  greet  the  doc 
tor  as  he  entered.  She  regarded  the  physician 
with  eyes  that  somehow  seemed  to  be  wise  and 
kind,  and  with  a  smile  that  was  at  once  sincere 
and  humorous. 

"Why,  how  is  this,  Helen?"  Dr.  Buxton  ex 
claimed,  taking  off  his  spectacles,  and  staring 
at  the  young  lady.  "I  fully  expected  to  find 
you  in  bed.  I  hope  you  are  not  imprudent." 

"Why  should  I  be  ill,  Dr.  Buxton?  You 
know  what  Mr.  Tom  Appleton  says:  'In  Bos 
ton,  those  who  are  sick  do  injustice  to  the  air 
they  breathe  and  to  their  cooks.'  I  think  that  is 
a  patriotic  sentiment,  and  I  try  to  live  up  to  it. 
My  health  is  no  worse  than  usual,  and  usually  it 
is  very  good,"  said  Miss  Eustis. 

"You  certainly  seem  to  be  well,"  said  Dr. 
Buxton,  regarding  the  young  lady  with  a  pro 
fessional  frown;  "but  appearances  are  some 
times  deceitful.  I  met  Harriet  yesterday — " 


Azalia  185 

"Ah,  my  aunt!"  exclaimed  Helen,  in  a  tone  cal 
culated  to  imply  that  this  explained  everything. 

"I  met  Harriet  yesterday,  and  she  insisted  on 
my  coming  to  see  you  at  once,  certainly  not  later 
than  to-day." 

Miss  Eustis  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
laughed,  but  her  face  showed  that  she  appre 
ciated  this  manifestation  of  solicitude. 

"Let  me  see,"  she  said  reflectively;  "what  was 
my  complaint  yesterday?  We  must  do  justice 
to  Aunt  Harriet's  discrimination.  She  would 
never  forgive  you  if  you  went  away  without 
leaving  a  prescription.  My  health  is  so  good 
that  I  think  you  may  leave  me  a  mild  one." 

Unconsciously  the  young  lady  made  a  charm 
ing  picture  as  she  sat  with  her  head  drooping  a 
little  to  one  side  in  a  half-serious,  half-smiling 
effort  to  recall  to  mind  some  of  the  symptoms 
that  had  excited  her  aunt's  alarm.  Dr.  Buxton, 
prescription  book  in  hand,  gazed  at  her  quizzi 
cally  over  his  old-fashioned  spectacles;  seeing 
which,  Helen  laughed  heartily.  At  that  mo 
ment  her  aunt  entered  the  room — a  pleasant- 
faced  but  rather  prim  old  lady,  of  whom  it  had 


1 86  Free  Joe 

been  said  by  some  one  competent  to  judge,  that 
her  inquisitiveness  was  so  overwhelming  and  so 
important  that  it  took  the  shape  of  pity  in  one  di 
rection,  patriotism  in  another,  and  benevolence 
in  another,  giving  to  her  life  not  the  semblance 
but  the  very  essence  of  usefulness  and  activity. 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Dr.  Buxton?"  cried  the 
pleasant-faced  old  lady  somewhat  sharply.  "Do 
you  hear  her  wheeze  when  she  laughs?  Do  you 
remember  that  she  was  threatened  with  pneu 
monia  last  winter?  and  now  she  is  wheezing  be 
fore  the  winter  begins!" 

"This  is  the  trouble  I  was  trying  to  think  of," 
exclaimed  Helen,  sinking  back  in  her  chair  with 
a  gesture  of  mock  despair. 

"Don't  make  yourself  ridiculous,  dear,"  said 
the  aunt,  giving  the  little  clusters  of  gray  curls 
that  hung  about  her  ears  an  emphatic  shake. 
"Serious  matters  should  be  taken  seriously." 
Whereat  Helen  pressed  her  cheek  gently  against 
the  thin  white  hand  that  had  been  laid  caress 
ingly  on  her  shoulder. 

"Aunt  Harriet  has  probably  heard  me  say  that 
there  is  still  some  hope  for  the  country,  even 


Azalla  187 

though  it  is  governed  entirely  by  men,"  said 
Helen,  with  an  air  of  apology.  "The  men  can 
not  deprive  us  of  the  winter  climate  of  Boston, 
and  I  enjoy  that  above  all  things." 

Aunt  Harriet  smiled  reproachfully  at  her 
niece,  and  pulled  her  ear  gently. 

"But  indeed,  Dr.  Buxton,"  Helen  went  on  more 
seriously,  "the  winter  climate  of  Boston,  fine  as 
it  is,  is  beginning  to  pinch  us  harder  than  it  used 
to  do.  The  air  is  thinner,  and  the  cold  is  keener. 
When  I  was  younger — very  much  younger — 
than  I  am  now,  I  remember  that  I  used  to  run 
in  and  out,  and  fall  and  roll  in  the  snow  with 
perfect  impunity.  But  now  I  try  to  profit  by 
Aunt  Harriet's  example.  When  I  go  out,  I  go 
bundled  up  to  the  point  of  suffocation;  and  if 
the  wind  is  from  the  east,  as  it  usually  is,  I  wear 
wraps  and  shawls  indoors." 

Helen  smiled  brightly  at  her  aunt  and 
at  Dr.  Buxton;  but  her  aunt  seemed  to  be 
distressed,  and  the  physician  shook  his  head 
dubiously. 

"You  will  have  to  take  great  care  of  your 
self,"  said  Dr.  Buxton.  "You  must  be  prudent. 


1 88  Free  Joe 

The  slightest  change  in  the  temperature  may 
send  you  to  bed  for  the  rest  of  the  winter." 

"Dr.  Buxton  is  complimenting  you,  Aunt 
Harriet,"  said  Helen.  "You  should  drop  him 
a  courtesy." 

Whereupon  the  amiable  physician,  seeing  that 
there  was  no  remedy  for  the  humorous  view 
which  Miss  Eustis  took  of  her  condition,  went  fur 
ther,  and  informed  her  that  there  was  every  reason 
why  she  should  be  serious.  He  told  her,  with 
some  degree  of  bluntness,  that  her  symptoms, 
while  not  alarming,  were  not  at  all  reassuring. 

"It  is  always  the  way,  Dr.  Buxton,"  said 
Helen,  smiling  tenderly  at  her  aunt;  "I  believe 
you  would  confess  to  serious  symptoms  yourself 
if  Aunt  Harriet  insisted  on  it.  What  an  extraor 
dinary  politician  she  would  make!  My  sym 
pathy  with  the  woman-suffrage  movement  is  in 
the  nature  of  an  investment.  When  we  women 
succeed  to  the  control  of  affairs,  I  count  on 
achieving  distinction  as  Aunt  Harriet's  niece." 

Laughing,  she  seized  her  aunt's  hand.  Dr. 
Buxton,  watching  her,  laughed  too,  and  then 
proceeded  to  write  out  a  prescription.  He 


Azalia  1 89 

seemed   to   hesitate   a   little    over   this;   seeing 
which,  Helen  remonstrated: 

"Pray,  Dr.  Buxton,  don't  humor  Aunt  Har 
riet  too  much  in  this.  Save  your  physic  for 
those  who  are  strong  in  body  and  mind.  A 
dozen  of  your  pellets  ought  to  be  a  year's  sup 
ply."  The  physician  wrote  out  his  prescription, 
and  took  his  leave,  laughing  heartily  at  the  ami 
able  confusion  in  which  Helen's  drollery  had 
left  her  aunt. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  Miss 
Eustis  was  simply  droll.  She  was  unconven 
tional  at  all  times,  and  sometimes  wilful- 
inheriting  that  native  strength  of  mind  and 
mother  wit  which  are  generally  admitted  to  be 
a  part  of  the  equipment  of  the  typical  American 
woman.  If  she  was  not  the  ideal  young  woman, 
at  least  she  possessed  some  of  the  attractive  quali 
ties  that  one  tries — sometimes  unsuccessfully — 
to  discover  in  one's  dearest  friends.  From  her 
infancy,  until  near  the  close  of  the  war,  she  had 
had  the  advantage  of  her  father's  companion 
ship,  so  that  her  ideas  were  womanly  rather 
than  merely  feminine.  She  had  never  been  per- 


190  Free  Joe 

mitted  to  regard  the  world  from  the  dormer- 
windows  of  a  young  ladies'  seminary,  in  conse 
quence  of  which  her  views  of  life  in  general, 
and  of  mankind  in  particular,  were  orderly  and 
rational.  Such  indulgence  as  her  father  had 
given  her  had  served  to  strengthen  her  individu 
ality  rather  than  to  confirm  her  temper;  and, 
though  she  had  a  strong  and  stubborn  will  of 
her  own,  her  tact  was  such  that  her  wilfulness 
appeared  to  be  the  most  natural  as  well  as  the 
most  charming  thing  in  the  world.  Moreover, 
she  possessed  in  a  remarkable  degree  that  buoy 
ancy  of  mind  that  is  more  engaging  than  mere 
geniality. 

Her  father  was  no  less  a  person  than  Charles 
Osborne  Eustis,  the  noted  philanthropist  and 
abolitionist,  whose  death  in  1867  was  the  occa 
sion  of  quite  a  controversy  in  New  England — a 
controversy  based  on  the  fact  that  he  had  op 
posed  some  of  the  most  virulent  schemes  of  his 
coworkers  at  a  time  when  abolitionism  had  not 
yet  gathered  its  full  strength.  Mr.  Eustis,  in  his 
day,  was  in  the  habit  of  boasting  that  his  daugh 
ter  had  a  great  deal  of  genuine  American  spirit 


Azalia  191 

— the  spirit  that  one  set  of  circumstances  drives 
to  provinciality,  another  to  patriotism,  and  an 
other  to  originality. 

Helen  had  spent  two  long  winters  in  Europe 
without  parting  with  the  fine  flavor  of  her  orig 
inality.  She  was  exceedingly  modest  in  her  de 
signs,  too,  for  she  went  neither  as  a  missionary 
nor  as  a  repentant.  She  found  no  foreign  social 
shrines  that  she  thought  worthy  of  worshiping 
at.  She  admired  what  was  genuine,  and  toler 
ated  such  shams  as  obtruded  themselves  on  her 
attention.  Her  father's  connections  had  enabled 
her  to  see  something  of  the  real  home-life  of 
England;  and  she  was  delighted,  but  not  greatly 
surprised,  to  find  that  at  its  best  it  was  not  greatly 
different  from  the  home  life  to  which  she  had 
been  accustomed. 

The  discovery  delighted  her  because  it  con 
firmed  her  own  broad  views;  but  she  no  more 
thought  it  necessary  to  set  about  aping  the  social 
peculiarities  to  be  found  in  London  drawing- 
rooms  than  she  thought  of  denying  her  name  or 
her  nativity.  She  made  many  interesting  studies 
and  comparisons,  but  she  was  not  disposed  to  be 


192  Free  Joe 

critical.  She  admired  many  things  in  Europe 
which  she  would  not  have  considered  admirable 
in  America,  and  whatever  she  found  displeasing 
she  tolerated  as  the  natural  outcome  of  social 
or  climatic  conditions.  Certainly  the  idea  never 
occurred  to  her  that  her  own  country  was  a  bar 
ren  waste  because  time  had  not  set  the  seal  of 
antiquity  on  its  institutions.  On  the  other  hand, 
this  admirable  young  woman  was  quick  to  per 
ceive  that  much  information  as  well  as  satis 
faction  was  to  be  obtained  by  regarding  various 
European  peculiarities  from  a  strictly  European 
point  of  view. 

But  Miss  Eustis's  reminiscences  of  the  Old 
World  were  sad  as  well  as  pleasant.  Her  jour 
ney  thither  had  been  undertaken  in  the  hope  of 
restoring  her  father's  failing  health,  and  her  stay 
there  had  been  prolonged  for  the  same  purpose. 
For  a  time  he  grew  stronger  and  better,  but  the 
improvement  was  only  temporary.  He  came 
home  to  die,  and  to  Helen  this  result  seemed  to 
be  the  end  of  all  things.  She  had  devoted  her 
self  to  looking  after  his  comfort  with  a  zeal  and 
an  intelligence  that  left  nothing  undone.  This 


Azalia  1 93 

had  been  her  mission  in  life.  Her  mother  had 
died  when  Helen  was  a  little  child,  leaving  her 
self  and  her  brother,  who  was  some  years  older, 
to  the  care  of  the  father.  Helen  remembered 
her  mother  only  as  a  pale,  beautiful  lady  in  a 
trailing  robe,  who  fell  asleep  one  day,  and  was 
mysteriously  carried  away — the  lady  of  a  dream. 
The  boy — the  brother — rode  forth  to  the  war 
in  1862,  and  never  rode  back  any  more.  To  the 
father  and  sister  waiting  at  home,  it  seemed  as  if 
he  had  been  seized  and  swept  from  the  earth  on 
the  bosom  of  the  storm  that  broke  over  the  coun 
try  in  that  period  of  dire  confusion.  Even  Ru 
mor,  with  her  thousand  tongues,  had  little  to 
say  of  the  fate  of  this  poor  youth.  It  was  known 
that  he  led  a  squad  of  troopers  detailed  for  spe 
cial  service,  and  that  his  command,  with  small 
knowledge  of  the  country,  fell  into  an  ambush 
from  which  not  more  than  two  or  three  extri 
cated  themselves.  Beyond  this  all  was  mystery, 
for  those  who  survived  that  desperate  skirmish 
could  say  nothing  of  the  fate  of  their  compan 
ions.  The  loss  of  his  son  gave  Mr.  Eustis  addi 
tional  interest  in  his  daughter,  if  that  were  pos- 

VOL.  3  9 


194  Free  Joe 

sible;  and  the  common  sorrow  of  the  two 
so  strengthened  and  sweetened  their  lives  that 
their  affection  for  each  other  was  in  the  nature 
of  a  perpetual  memorial  of  the  pale  lady  who 
had  passed  away,  and  of  the  boy  who  had  per 
ished  in  Virginia. 

When  Helen's  father  died,  in  1867,  her 
mother's  sister,  Miss  Harriet  Tewksbury,  a  spin 
ster  of  fifty  or  thereabouts,  who,  for  the  lack  of 
something  substantial  to  interest  her,  had  been 
halting  between  woman's  rights  and  Spiritual 
ism,  suddenly  discovered  that  Helen's  cause  was 
the  real  woman's  cause;  whereupon  she  went  to 
the  lonely  and  grief-stricken  girl,  and  with  that 
fine  efficiency  which  the  New  England  woman 
acquires  from  the  air,  and  inherits  from  history, 
proceeded  to  minister  to  her  comfort.  Miss 
Tewksbury  was  not  at  all  vexed  to  find  her  niece 
capable  of  taking  care  of  herself.  She  did  not 
allow  that  fact  to  prevent  her  from  assuming 
a  motherly  control  that  was  most  gracious  in 
its  manifestations,  and  peculiarly  gratifying  to 
Helen,  who  found  great  consolation  in  the  all 
but  masculine  energy  of  her  aunt. 


Azalia  195 

A  day  or  two  after  Dr.  Buxton's  visit,  the  re 
sult  of  which  has  already  been  chronicled,  Miss 
Tewksbury's  keen  eye  detected  an  increase  of  the 
symptoms  that  had  given  her  anxiety,  and  their 
development  was  of  such  a  character  that  Helen 
made  no  objection  when  her  aunt  proposed  to 
call  in  the  physician  again.  Dr.  Buxton  came, 
and  agreed  with  Miss  Tewksbury  as  to  the 
gravity  of  the  symptoms;  but  his  prescription 
was  oral. 

"You  must  keep  Helen  indoors  until  she  is  a 
little  stronger,"  he  said  to  Miss  Tewksbury,  "and 
then  take  her  to  a  milder  climate." 

"Oh,  not  to  Florida!"  exclaimed  Helen 
promptly. 

"Not  necessarily,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Please  don't  twist  your  language,  Dr.  Bux 
ton.  You  should  say  necessarily  not." 

"And  why  not  to  Florida,  young  lady?"  the 
doctor  inquired. 

"Ah,  I  have  seen  people  that  came  from 
there,"  said  Helen:  "they  were  too  tired  to  talk 
much  about  the  country,  but  something  in  their 
attitude  and  appearance  seemed  to  suggest  that 


196  Free  Joe 

they  had  seen  the  sea-serpent.  Dear  doctor,  I 
have  no  desire  to  see  the  sea-serpent." 

"Well,  then,  my  dear  child,"  said  Dr.  Bux- 
ton  soothingly,  "not  to  Florida,  but  to  nature's 
own  sanitarium,  the  pine  woods  of  Georgia. 
Yes,"  the  doctor  went  on,  smiling  as  he  rubbed 
the  glasses  of  his  spectacles  with  his  silk  hand 
kerchief,  "nature's  own  sanitarium.  I  tested  the 
piny  woods  of  Georgia  thoroughly  years  ago.  I 
drifted  there  in  my  young  days.  I  lived  there, 
and  taught  school  there.  I  grew  strong  there, 
and  I  have  always  wanted  to  go  back  there." 

"And  now,"  said  Helen,  with  a  charmingly 
demure  glance  at  the  enthusiastic  physician, 
"you  want  to  send  Aunt  Harriet  and  poor  Me 
forward  as  a  skirmish-line.  There  is  no  anti 
dote  in  your  books  for  the  Ku-Klux." 

"You  will  see  new  scenes  and  new  people," 
said  Dr.  Buxton,  laughing.  "You  will  get  new 
ideas;  above  all,  you  will  breathe  the  fresh  air 
of  heaven  spiced  with  the  odor  of  pines.  It  will 
be  the  making  of  you,  my  dear  child." 

Helen  made  various  protests,  some  of  them 
serious  and  some  droll,  but  the  matter  was  prac- 


Azalia  197 

tically  settled  when  it  became  evident  that  Dr. 
Buxton  was  not  only  earnestly  but  enthusiasti 
cally  in  favor  of  the  journey;  and  Helen's  aunt 
at  once  began  to  make  preparations.  To  some 
of  their  friends  it  seemed  a  serious  undertaking 
indeed.  The  newspapers  of  that  day  were  full 
of  accounts  of  Ku-Klux  outrages,  and  of  equally 
terrible  reports  of  the  social  disorganization  of 
the  South.  It  seemed  at  that  time  as  though  the 
politicians  and  the  editors,  both  great  and  small, 
and  of  every  shade  of  belief,  had  determined  to 
fight  the  war  over  again — instituting  a  conflict 
which,  though  bloodless  enough  so  far  as  the 
disputants  were  concerned,  was  not  without  its 
unhappy  results. 

Moreover,  Helen's  father  had  been  noted 
among  those  who  had  early  engaged  in  the  cru 
sade  against  slavery;  and  it  was  freely  predicted 
by  her  friends  that  the  lawlessness  which  was  sup 
posed  to  exist  in  every  part  of  the  collapsed  Con 
federacy  would  be  prompt  to  select  the  represen 
tatives  of  Charles  Osborne  Eustis  as  its  victims. 

Miss  Tewksbury  affected  to  smile  at  the  ap 
prehensions  of  her  friends,  but  her  preparations 


198  Free  Joe 

were  not  undertaken  without  a  secret  dread  of 
the  responsibilities  she  was  assuming.  Helen, 
however,  was  disposed  to  treat  the  matter  humor 
ously.  "Dr.  Buxton  is  a  lifelong  Democrat,"  she 
said;  "consequently  he  must  know  all  about  it. 
Father  used  to  tell  him  he  liked  his  medicine 
better  than  his  politics,  bitter  as  some  of  it  was; 
but  in  a  case  of  this  kind,  Dr.  Buxton's  politics 
have  a  distinct  value.  He  will  give  us  the  grips, 
the  signs,  and  the  pass-words,  dear  aunt,  and  I 
dare  say  we  shall  get  along  comfortably." 


II 


THEY  did  get  along  comfortably.  Peace 
seemed  to  spread  her  meshes  before  them.  They 
journeyed  by  easy  stages,  stopping  a  while  in 
Philadelphia,  in  Baltimore,  and  in  Washington. 
They  stayed  a  week  in  Richmond.  From  Rich 
mond  they  were  to  go  to  Atlanta,  and  from  At 
lanta  to  Azalia,  the  little  piny  woods  village 
which  Dr.  Buxton  had  recommended  as  a  sani 
tarium.  At  a  point  south  of  Richmond,  where 
they  stopped  for  breakfast,  Miss  Eustis  and  her 


Azalia  199 

aunt  witnessed  a  little  scene  that  seemed  to  them 
to  be  very  interesting.  A  gentleman  wrapped 
in  a  long  linen  traveling-coat  was  pacing  rest 
lessly  up  and  down  the  platform  of  the  little 
station.  He  was  tall,  and  his  bearing  was  dis 
tinctly  military.  The  neighborhood  people  who 
were  lounging  around  the  station  watched  him 
with  interest.  After  a  while  a  negro  boy  came 
running  up  with  a  valise  which  he  had  evidently 
brought  some  distance.  He  placed  it  in  front  of 
the  tall  gentleman,  crying  out  in  a  loud  voice: 
"Here  she  is,  Marse  Peyton,"  then  stepped  to 
one  side,  and  began  to  fan  himself  vigorously 
with  the  fragment  of  a  wool  hat.  He  grinned 
broadly  in  response  to  something  the  tall  gentle 
man  said;  but,  before  he  could  make  a  suitable 
reply,  a  negro  woman,  fat  and  motherly-looking, 
made  her  appearance,  puffing  and  blowing  and 
talking. 

"I  declar'  ter  gracious,  Marse  Peyton!  seem 
like  I  wa'n't  never  gwine  ter  git  yer.  I  belt  up 
my  head,  I  did,  fer  ter  keep  my  eye  on  de  kyars, 
en  it  look  like  I  run  inter  all  de  gullies  en  on  top 
er  all  de  stumps  'twix'  dis  en  Marse  Tip's.  I 


2OO  Free  Joe 

des  tuk'n  drapt  everything,  I  did,  en  tole  um 
dey'd  hatter  keep  one  eye  on  de  dinner-pot,  kaze 
I  'blige  ter  run  en  see  Marse  Peyton  off." 

The  gentleman  laughed  as  the  motherly-look 
ing  old  negro  wiped  her  face  with  her  apron. 
Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up,  and  her  fat  arms 
glistened  in  the  sun. 

"I  boun'  you  some  er  deze  yer  folks  '11  go  off  en 
say  I'm  'stracted,"  she  cried,  "but  I  can't  he'p  dat ; 
I  bleeze  ter  run  down  yer  ter  tell  Marse  Pey 
ton  good-by.  Tell  um  all  howdy  fer  me,  Marse 
Peyton,"  she  cried,  "all  un  um.  No  diffunce  ef 
I  ain't  know  um  all — 'tain't  gwine  ter  do  no 
harm  fer  ter  tell  um  dat  ole  Jincy  say  howdy. 
Hit  make  me  feel  right  foolish  in  de  head  w'en 
it  comes  'cross  me  dat  I  use  ter  tote  Miss  Hallie 
'roun'  w'en  she  wuz  a  little  bit  er  baby,  en  now 
she  way  down  dar  out'n  de  worl'  mos'.  I  wish 
ter  de  Lord  I  uz  gwine  'long  wid  you,  Marse 
Peyton!  Yit  I  'speck,  time  I  got  dar,  I'd  whirl 
in  en  wish  myse'f  back  home." 

The  negro  boy  carried  the  gentleman's  valise 
into  the  sleeping-coach,  and  placed  it  opposite 
the  seats  occupied  by  Helen  and  her  aunt. 


Azalla  20 1 

Across  the  end  was  stenciled  in  white  the  name 
"Peyton  Garwood."  When  the  train  was  ready 
to  start,  the  gentleman  shook  hands  with  the 
negro  woman  and  with  the  boy.  The  woman 
seemed  to  be  very  much  affected. 

"God  A'mighty  bless  you,  Marse  Peyton, 
honey!"  she  exclaimed  as  the  train  moved  off; 
and  as  long  as  Helen  could  see  her,  she  was  wav 
ing  her  hands  in  farewell.  Both  Helen  and  her 
aunt  had  watched  this  scene  with  considerable 
interest,  and  now,  when  the  gentleman  had  been 
escorted  to  his  seat  by  the  obsequious  porter, 
they  regarded  him  with  some  curiosity.  He  ap 
peared  to  be  about  thirty-five  years  old.  His 
face  would  have  been  called  exceedingly  hand 
some  but  for  a  scar  on  his  right  cheek;  and  yet, 
on  closer  inspection,  the  scar  seemed  somehow 
to  fit  the  firm  outlines  of  his  features.  His 
brown  beard  emphasized  the  strength  of  his 
chin.  His  nose  was  slightly  aquiline,  his  eye 
brows  were  a  trifle  rugged,  and  his  hair  was 
brushed  straight  back  from  a  high  forehead.  His 
face  was  that  of  a  man  who  had  seen  rough  service 
and  enjoyed  it  keenly — a  face  full  of  fire  and  reso- 


2O2  Free  Joe 

lution  with  some  subtle  suggestion  of  tenderness. 

"She  called  him  'Master,'  Helen,"  said  Miss 
Tewksbury  after  a  while,  referring  to  the  scene 
at  the  station ;  "did  you  hear  her?"  Miss  Tewks- 
bury's  tone  implied  wrathfulness  that  was  too 
sure  of  its  own  justification  to  assert  itself  noisily. 

"I  heard  her,"  Helen  replied.  "She  called 
him  Master,  and  he  called  her  Mammy.  It  was 
a  very  pleasing  exchange  of  compliments." 

Such  further  comment  as  the  ladies  may  have 
felt  called  on  to  make — for  it  was  a  matter  in 
which  both  were  very  much  interested — was 
postponed  for  the  time  being.  A  passenger  oc 
cupying  a  seat  in  the  farther  end  of  the  coach 
had  recognized  the  gentleman  whose  valise  was 
labeled  "Peyton  Garwood,"  and  now  pressed 
forward  to  greet  him.  This  passenger  was  a 
very  aggressive-looking  person.  He  was  short 
and  stout,  but  there  was  no  suggestion  of  jollity 
or  even  of  good-humor  in  his  rotundity.  No 
one  would  have  made  the  mistake  of  alluding 
to  him  as  a  fat  man.  He  would  have  been 
characterized  as  the  pudgy  man;  and  even  his 
pudginess  was  aggressive.  He  had  evidently 


Azalia  203 

determined  to  be  dignified  at  any  cost,  but  his 
seriousness  seemed  to  be  perfectly  gratuitous. 

"Gener'l  Garwood?"  he  said  in  an  impressive 
tone,  as  he  leaned  over  the  tall  gentleman's  seat. 

"Ah!  Goolsby!"  exclaimed  the  other,  extend 
ing  his  hand.  " Why,  how  do  you  do?  Sit  down." 

Goolsby's  pudginess  became  more  apparent 
and  apparently  more  aggressive  than  ever  when 
he  seated  himself  near  General  Garwood. 

"Well,  sir,  I  can't  say  my  health's  any  too 
good.  You  look  mighty  well  yourse'f,  gener'l. 
How  are  things?"  said  Goolsby,  pushing  his  trav 
eling-cap  over  his  eyes,  and  frowning  as  if  in  pain. 

"Oh,  affairs  seem  to  be  improving,"  General 
Garwood  replied. 

"Well,  now,  I  ain't  so  up  and  down  certain 
about  that,  gener'l,"  said  Goolsby,  settling  him 
self  back,  and  frowning  until  his  little  eyes  dis 
appeared.  "Looks  like  to  me  that  things  git 
wuss  and  wuss.  I  ain't  no  big  man,  and  I'm  ruth- 
er  disj'inted  when  it  comes  right  down  to  politics ; 
but  blame  me  if  it  don't  look  to  me  mighty  like 
the  whole  of  creation  is  driftin'  'round  loose." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  general  soothingly,  "a 


204  Free  Joe 

great  many  things  are  uncomfortable;  there  is  a 
good  deal  of  unnecessary  irritation  growing  out 
of  new  and  unexpected  conditions.  But  we  are 
getting  along  better  than  we  are  willing  to  ad 
mit.  We  are  all  fond  of  grumbling." 

"That's  so,"  said  Goolsby,  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  is  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  for 
the  sake  of  a  discussion;  "that's  so.  But  I  tell 
you  we're  havin'  mighty  tough  times,  gener'l 
— mighty  tough  times.  Yonder's  the  Yankees 
on  one  side,  and  here's  the  blamed  niggers  on 
t'other,  and  betwixt  and  betweenst  'em  a  white 
man's  got  mighty  little  chance.  And  then,  right 
on  top  of  the  whole  caboodle,  here  comes  the 
panic  in  the  banks,  and  the  epizooty  'mongst  the 
cattle.  I  tell  you,  gener'l,  it's  tough  times,  and 
it's  in-about  as  much  as  an  honest  man  can  do  to 
pay  hotel  bills  and  have  a  ticket  ready  to  show 
up  when  the  conductor  comes  along." 

General  Garwood  smiled  sympathetically,  and 
Goolsby  went  on:  "Here  I've  been  runnin'  up 
and  down  the  country  tryin'  to  sell  a  book,  and  I 
ain't  sold  a  hunderd  copies  sence  I  started — no, 
sir,  not  a  hunderd  copies.  Maybe  you'd  like  to 


Azalia  205 

look  at  it,  gener'l,"  continued  Goolsby,  stiffening 
up  a  little.  "If  I  do  say  it  myself,  it's  in-about 
the  best  book  that  a  man'll  git  a  chance  to  thumb 
in  many  a  long  day." 

"What  book  is  it,  Goolsby?"  the  general  in 
quired. 

Goolsby  sprang  up,  waddled  rapidly  to  where 
he  had  left  his  satchel,  and  returned,  bringing  a 
large  and  substantial-looking  volume. 

"It's  a  book  that  speaks  for  itself  any  day  in 
the  week,"  he  said,  running  the  pages  rapidly 
between  his  fingers;  "it's  a  history  of  our  own 
great  conflict — 'The  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Rebel 
lion,'  by  Schuyler  Paddleford.  I  don't  know 
what  the  blamed  publishers  wanted  to  put  it 
'Rebellion'  for.  I  told  'em,  says  I :  'Gentlemen, 
it'll  be  up-hill  work  with  this  in  the  Sunny 
South.  Call  it  "The  Conflict,"  '  says  I.  But 
they  wouldn't  listen,  and  now  I  have  to  work 
like  a  blind  nigger  splittin'  rails.  But  she's  a 
daisy,  gener'l,  as  shore  as  you're  born.  She  jess 
reads  right  straight  along  from  cover  to  cover 
without  a  bobble.  Why,  sir,  I  never  know'd 
what  war  was  till  I  meandered  through  the 


206  Free  Joe 

sample  pages  of  this  book.  And  they've  got 
your  picture  in  here,  gener'l,  jest  as  natural  as 
life — all  for  five  dollars  in  cloth,  eight  in  liberry 
style,  and  ten  in  morocker." 

General  Garwood  glanced  over  the  specimen 
pages  with  some  degree  of  interest,  while  Gools- 
by  continued  to  talk. 

"Now,  betwixt  you  and  me,  gener'l,"  he  went 
on  confidentially,  "I  don't  nigh  like  the  style  of 
that  book,  particular  where  it  rattles  up  our 
side.  I  wa'n't  in  the  war  myself,  but  blame  me 
if  it  don't  rile  me  when  I  hear  outsiders  a-cussin' 
them  that  was.  I  come  mighty  nigh  not  takin' 
holt  of  it  on  that  account;  but  'twouldn't  have 
done  no  good,  not  a  bit.  If  sech  a  book  is  got  to 
be  circulated  around  here,  it  better  be  circulated 
by  some  good  Southron — a  man  that's  a  kind  of 
antidote  to  the  pizen,  as  it  were.  If  I  don't  sell 
it,  some  blamed  Yankee'll  jump  in  and  gallop 
around  with  it.  And  I  tell  you  what,  gener'l, 
betwixt  you  and  me  and  the  gate-post,  it's  done 
come  to  that  pass  where  a  man  can't  afford  to 
be  too  plegged  particular;  if  he  stops  for  to 
scratch  his  head  and  consider  whether  he's  a  gen- 


Azalla  207 

tleman,  some  other  feller'll  jump  in  and  snatch 
the  rations  right  out  of  his  mouth.  That's  why 
I'm  a-paradin'  around  tryin'  to  sell  this  book." 

"Well,"  said  General  Garwood  in  an  encour 
aging  tone,  "I  have  no  doubt  it  is  a  very  interest 
ing  book.  I  have  heard  of  it  before.  Fetch  me 
a  copy  when  you  come  to  Azalia  again." 

Goolsby  smiled  an  unctuous  and  knowing 
smile.  "Maybe  you  think  I  ain't  a-comin',"  he  ex 
claimed,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  invented 
a  joke  that  he  relishes.  "Well,  sir,  you're  get 
ting  the  wrong  measure.  I  was  down  in  'Zalia 
Monday  was  a  week,  and  I'm  a-goin'  down  week 
after  next.  Fact  is,"  continued  Goolsby,  rather 
sheepishly,  "  'Zalia  is  a  mighty  nice  place. 
Gener'l,  do  you  happen  to  know  Miss  Louisa 
Hornsby?  Of  course  you  do!  Well,  sir,  you 
might  go  a  week's  journey  in  the  wildwood,  as 
the  poet  says,  and  not  find  a  handsomer  gal  then 
that.  She's  got  style  from  away  back." 

"Why,  yes!"  exclaimed  the  general  in  a  tone 
of  hearty  congratulation,  "of  course  I  know  Miss 
Lou.  She  is  a  most  excellent  young  lady.  And 
so  the  wind  sits  in  that  quarter?  Your  blushes, 


208  Free  Joe 

Goolsby,  are  a  happy  confirmation  of  many  sweet 
and  piquant  rumors." 

Goolsby  appeared  to  be  very  much  embar 
rassed.  He  moved  about  uneasily  in  his  seat, 
searched  in  all  his  pockets  for  something  or 
other  that  wasn't  there,  and  made  a  vain  effort  to 
protest.  He  grew  violently  red  in  the  face,  and  the 
color  gleamed  through  his  closely  cropped  hair. 

"Oh,  come  now,  gener'l !"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh, 
pshaw!  Why — oh,  go  'way!" 

His  embarrassment  was  so  great,  and  seemed 
to  border  so  closely  on  epilepsy,  that  the  general 
was  induced  to  offer  him  a  cigar  and  invite  him 
into  the  smoking  apartment.  As  General  Gar- 
wood  and  Goolsby  passed  out,  Helen  Eustis 
drew  a  long  breath. 

"It  is  worth  the  trouble  of  a  long  journey  to 
behold  such  a  spectacle,"  she  declared.  Her 
aunt  regarded  her  curiously.  "Who  would  have 
thought  it?"  she  went  on — "a  Southern  seces 
sionist  charged  with  affability,  and  a  book-agent 
radiant  with  embarrassment!" 

"He  is  a  coarse,  ridiculous  creature,"  said 
Miss  Tewksbury  sharply. 


Azalla  209 

"The  affable  general,  Aunt  Harriet?" 

"No,  child;  the  other." 

"Dear  aunt,  we  are  in  the  enemy's  country, 
and  we  must  ground  our  prejudices.  The  book- 
agent  is  pert  and  crude,  but  he  is  not  coarse.  A 
coarse  man  may  be  in  love,  but  he  would  never 
blush  over  it.  And  as  for  the  affable  general — 
you  saw  the  negro  woman  cry  over  him." 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  with  a 
sigh.  "She  sadly  needs  Instruction." 

"Ah,  yes!  that  is  a  theory  we  should  stand  to, 
but  how  shall  we  instruct  her  to  run  and  cry 
after  us?" 

"My  dear  child,  we  want  no  such  disgusting 
exhibitions.  It  is  enough  if  we  do  our  duty  by 
these  unfortunates." 

"But  I  do  want  just  such  an  exhibition,  Aunt 
Harriet,"  said  Helen  seriously.  "I  should  be 
glad  to  have  some  fortunate  or  unfortunate  crea 
ture  run  and  cry  after  me." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury  placidly,  "we 
are  about  to  ignore  the  most  impressive  fact, 
after  all." 

"What  is  that,  Aunt  Harriet?" 


2io  Free  Joe 

"Why,  child,  these  people  are  from  Azalia, 
and  for  us  Azalia  is  the  centre  of  the  universe." 

"Ah,  don't  pretend  that  you  are  not  charmed, 
dear  aunt.  We  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  meet 
ing  the  handsome  Miss  Hornsby,  and  probably 
Mr.  Goolsby  himself — and  certainly  the  distin 
guished  general." 

"I  only  hope  Ephraim  Buxton  has  a  clear  con 
science  to-day,"  remarked  Miss  Tewksbury  with 
unction. 

"Did  you  observe  the  attitude  of  the  general 
toward  Mr.  Goolsby,  and  that  of  Mr.  Goolsby 
toward  the  general?"  asked  Helen,  ignoring  the 
allusion  to  Dr.  Buxton.  "The  line  that  the  gen 
eral  drew  was  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  But  Mr. 
Goolsby  drew  no  line.  He  is  friendly  and  famil 
iar  on  principle.  I  was  reminded  of  the  'Brook- 
line  Reporter,'  which  alluded  the  other  day  to 
the  London  'Times'  as  its  esteemed  contem 
porary.  The  affable  general  is  Mr.  Goolsby's 
esteemed  contemporary." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  some 
what  anxiously,  "I  hope  your  queer  conceits  are 
not  the  result  of  your  illness." 


Azalia  211 

"No,  they  are  the  result  of  my  surround 
ings.  I  have  been  trying  to  pretend  to  myself, 
ever  since  we  left  Washington,  that  we  are  trav 
eling  through  a  strange  country;  but  it  is  a  mere 
pretense.  I  have  been  trying  to  verify  some 
previous  impressions  of  barbarism  and  shift- 
lessness." 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  my  dear,"  exclaimed 
Miss  Tewksbury,  "I  should  think  you  had  had 
ample  opportunity." 

"I  have  been  trying  to  take  the  newspaper 
view,"  Helen  went  on  with  some  degree  of  ear 
nestness,  "but  it  is  impossible.  We  must  correct 
the  newspapers,  Aunt  Harriet,  and  make  our 
selves  famous.  Everything  I  have  seen  that  is 
not  to  be  traced  to  the  result  of  the  war  belongs 
to  a  state  of  arrested  development." 

Miss  Tewksbury  was  uncertain  whether  her 
niece  was  giving  a  new  turn  to  her  drollery,  so 
she  merely  stared  at  her;  but  the  young  lady 
seemed  to  be  serious  enough. 

"Don't  interrupt  me,  Aunt  Harriet.  Give  me 
the  opportunity  you  would  give  to  Dr.  Barlow 
Blade,  the  trance  medium.  Everything  I  see  in 


212  Free  Joe 

this  country  belongs  to  a  state  of  arrested  de 
velopment,  and  it  has  been  arrested  at  a  most 
interesting  point.  It  is  picturesque.  It  is 
colonial.  I  am  amazed  that  this  fact  has  not 
been  dwelt  on  by  people  who  write  about  the 
South." 

"The  conservatism  that  prevents  progress,  or 
stands  in  the  way  of  it,  is  a  crime,"  said  Miss 
Tewksbury,  pressing  her  thin  lips  together 
firmly.  She  had  once  been  on  the  platform  in 
some  of  the  little  country  towns  of  New  Eng 
land,  and  had  made  quite  a  reputation  for  pith 
and  fluency. 

"Ah,  dear  aunt,  that  sounds  like  an  extract 
from  a  lecture.  We  can  have  progress  in  some 
things,  but  not  in  others.  We  have  progressed 
in  the  matter  of  conveniences,  comforts,  and  lux 
uries,  but  in  what  other  directions?  Are  we  any 
better  than  the  people  who  lived  in  the  days  of 
Washington,  Jefferson,  and  Madison?  Is  the 
standard  of  morality  any  higher  now  than  it  was 
in  the  days  of  the  apostles?" 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  Helen,"  said  Miss 
Tewksbury.  "We  have  a  higher  civilization 


Azalia  213 

than  the  apostles  witnessed.  Morality  is  pro 
gressive." 

"Well,"  said  Helen,  with  a  sigh,  "it  is  a  pity 
these  people  have  discarded  shoe-buckles  and 
knee-breeches." 

"Your  queer  notions  make  me  thirsty,  child," 
said  Miss  Tewksbury,  producing  a  silver  cup 
from  her  satchel.  "I  must  get  a  drink  of 
water." 

"Permit  me,  madam,"  said  a  sonorous  voice 
behind  them;  and  a  tall  gentleman  seized  the 
cup,  and  bore  it  away. 

"It  is  the  distinguished  general!"  exclaimed 
Helen  in  a  tragic  whisper,  "and  he  must  have 
heard  our  speeches." 

"I  hope  he  took  them  down,"  said  Miss 
Tewksbury  snappishly.  "He  will  esteem  you 
as  a  sympathizer." 

"Did  I  say  anything  ridiculous,  Aunt  Har 
riet?" 

"Dear  me!  you  must  ask  your  distinguished 
general,"  replied  Miss  Tewksbury  triumphantly. 

General  Garwood  returned  with  the  water, 
and  insisted  on  fetching  more.  Helen  observed 


214  Free  Joe 

that  he  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  that  his 
attitude  was  one  of  unstudied  deference. 

"The  conductor  tells  me,  madam,"  he  said, 
addressing  himself  to  Miss  Tewksbury,  "that 
you  have  tickets  for  Azalia.  I  am  going  in  that 
direction  myself,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  be  of 
any  service  to  you.  Azalia  is  a  poor  little  place, 
but  I  like  it  well  enough  to  live  there.  I  sup 
pose  that  is  the  reason  the  conductor  told  me  of 
your  tickets.  He  knew  the  information  would 
be  interesting." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury  with 
dignity. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Miss  Eustis  with  a 
smile. 

General  Garwood  made  himself  exceedingly 
agreeable.  He  pointed  out  the  interesting  places 
along  the  road,  gave  the  ladies  little  bits  of  local 
history  that  were  at  least  entertaining.  In  At 
lanta,  where  there  was  a  delay  of  a  few  hours, 
he  drove  them  over  the  battle-fields,  and  by  his 
graphic  descriptions  gave  them  a  new  idea  of 
the  heat  and  fury  of  war.  In  short,  he  made 
himself  so  agreeable  in  every  way  that  Miss 


Azalia  215 

Tewksbury  felt  at  libery  to  challenge  his  opin 
ions  on  various  subjects.  They  had  numberless 
little  controversies  about  the  rights  and  wrongs 
of  the  war,  and  the  perplexing  problems  that 
grew  out  of  its  results.  So  far  as  Miss  Tewks 
bury  was  concerned,  she  found  General  Gar- 
wood's  large  tolerance  somewhat  irritating,  for 
it  left  her  no  excuse  for  the  employment  of  her 
most  effective  arguments. 

"Did  you  surrender  your  prejudices  at  Ap- 
pomattox?"  Miss  Tewksbury  asked  him  on  one 
occasion. 

"Oh,  by  no  means;  you  remember  we  were 
allowed  to  retain  our  side-arms  and  our  saddle- 
horses,"  he  replied,  laughing.  "I  still  have  my 
prejudices,  but  I  trust  they  are  more  important 
than  those  I  entertained  in  my  youth.  Certainly 
they  are  less  uncomfortable." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  "you  are  still 
unrepentant,  and  that  is  more  serious  than  any 
number  of  prejudices." 

"There  is  nothing  to  repent  of,"  said  the  gen 
eral,  smiling,  a  little  sadly  as  Helen  thought. 
"It  has  all  passed  away  utterly.  The  best  we 


216  Free  Joe 

can  do  is  that  which  seems  right  and  just  and 
necessary.  My  duty  was  as  plain  to  me  in  1861, 
when  I  was  a  boy  of  twenty,  as  it  is  to-day.  It 
seemed  to  be  my  duty  then  to  serve  my  State  and 
section;  my  duty  now  seems  to  be  to  help  good 
people  everywhere  to  restore  the  Union,  and  to 
heal  the  wounds  of  the  war." 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  exclaimed 
Miss  Tewksbury  in  a  tone  that  made  Helen 
shiver.  "I  was  afraid  it  was  quite  otherwise. 
It  seems  to  me,  that,  if  I  lived  here,  I  should 
either  hate  the  people  who  conquered  me,  or 
else  the  sin  of  slavery  would  weigh  heavily  on 
my  conscience. 

"I  can  appreciate  that  feeling,  I  think,"  said 
General  Garwood,  "but  the  American  conscience 
is  a  very  healthy  one — not  likely  to  succumb  to 
influences  that  are  mainly  malarial  in  their  na 
ture;  and  even  from  your  point  of  view  some 
good  can  be  found  in  American  slavery." 

"I  have  never  found  it,"  said  Miss  Tewks 
bury. 

"You  must  admit  that  but  for  slavery  the  ne 
groes  who  are  here  would  be  savages  in  Africa. 


Azalia  217 

As  it  is,  they  have  had  the  benefit  of  more  than 
two  hundred  years'  contact  with  the  white  race. 
If  they  are  at  all  fitted  for  citizenship,  the  result 
is  due  to  the  civilizing  influence  of  slavery.  It 
seems  to  me  that  they  are  vastly  better  off  as 
American  citizens,  even  though  they  have  en 
dured  the  discipline  of  slavery,  than  they  would 
be  as  savages  in  Africa." 

Miss  Tewksbury's  eyes  snapped.  "Did  this 
make  slavery  right?"  she  asked. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  general,  smiling  at  the 
lady's  earnestness.  "But,  at  least,  it  is  something 
of  an  excuse  for  American  slavery.  It  seems  to 
be  an  evidence  that  Providence  had  a  hand  in 
the  whole  unfortunate  business." 

But  in  spite  of  these  discussions  and  contro 
versies,  the  general  made  himself  so  thoroughly 
agreeable  in  every  way,  and  was  so  thoughtful  in 
his  attentions,  that  by  the  time  Helen  and  her 
aunt  arrived  at  Azalia  they  were  disposed  to 
believe  that  he  had  placed  them  under  many  ob 
ligations,  and  they  said  so;  but  the  general  in 
sisted  that  it  was  he  who  had  been  placed  under 
obligations,  and  he  declared  it  to  be  his  intention 

VOL.  3  10 


2i 8  Free  Joe 

to  discharge  a  few  of  them  as  soon  as  the  ladies 
found  themselves  comfortably  settled  in  the  little 
town  to  which  Dr.  Buxton  had  banished  them. 


Ill 


AZALIA  was  a  small  town,  but  it  was  a  com 
paratively  comfortable  one.  For  years  and  years 
before  the  war  it  had  been  noted  as  the  meeting- 
place  of  the  wagon-trains  by  means  of  which  the 
planters  transported  their  produce  to  market.  It 
was  on  the  highway  that  led  from  the  cotton- 
plantations  of  Middle  Georgia  to  the  city  of 
Augusta.  It  was  also  a  stopping-place  for  the 
stage-coaches  that  carried  the  mails.  Azalia  was 
not  a  large  town,  even  before  the  war,  when,  ac 
cording  to  the  testimony  of  the  entire  commu 
nity,  it  was  at  its  best;  and  it  certainly  had  not 
improved  any  since  the  war.  There  was  room 
for  improvement,  but  no  room  for  progress,  be 
cause  there  was  no  necessity  for  progress.  The 
people  were  contented.  They  were  satisfied  with 
things  as  they  existed,  though  they  had  an  hon 
est,  provincial  faith  in  the  good  old  times  that 


Azalia  219 

were  gone.  They  had  but  one  regret — that  the 
railroad  station,  four  miles  away,  had  been 
named  Azalia.  It  is  true,  the  station  consisted 
of  a  water-tank  and  a  little  pigeon-house  where 
tickets  were  sold;  but  the  people  of  Azalia 
proper  felt  that  it  was  in  the  nature  of  an  out 
rage  to  give  so  fine  a  name  to  so  poor  a  place. 
They  derived  some  satisfaction,  however,  from 
the  fact  that  the  world  at  large  found  it  nec 
essary  to  make  a  distinction  between  the  two 
places.  Azalia  was  called  "Big  Azalia,"  and 
the  railroad  station  was  known  as  "Little  Azalia." 
Away  back  in  the  forties,  or  perhaps  even 
earlier,  when  there  was  some  excitement  in  all 
parts  of  the  country  in  regard  to  railroad  build 
ing,  one  of  Georgia's  most  famous  orators  had 
alluded  in  the  legislature  to  Azalia  as  "the  nat 
ural  gateway  of  the  commerce  of  the  Empire 
State  of  the  South."  This  fine  phrase  stuck  in 
the  memories  of  the  people  of  Azalia  and  their 
posterity;  and  the  passing  traveler,  since  that  day 
and  time,  has  heard  a  good  deal  of  it.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  the  figure  was  fairly  applicable 
before  the  railways  were  built;  for,  as  has  been 


22O  Free  Joe 

explained,  Azalia  was  the  meeting-place  of  the 
wagon-trains  from  all  parts  of  the  State  in  going 
to  market.  When  the  cotton-laden  wagons  met 
at  Azalia,  they  parted  company  no  more  until 
they  had  reached  August.  The  natural  result 
of  this  was  that  Azalia,  in  one  way  and  another, 
saw  a  good  deal  of  life — much  that  was  enter 
taining,  and  a  good  deal  that  was  exciting.  An 
other  result  was  that  the  people  had  considerable 
practise  in  the  art  of  hospitality;  for  it  frequently 
happened  that  the  comfortable  tavern,  which 
Azalia's  commercial  importance  had  made  nec 
essary  at  a  very  early  period  of  the  town's  history, 
was  full  to  overflowing  with  planters  accompany 
ing  their  wagons,  and  lawyers  traveling  from 
court  to  court.  At  such  times  the  worthy  towns 
people  would  come  to  the  rescue,  and  offer  the 
shelter  of  their  homes  to  the  belated  wayfarer. 

There  was  another  feature  of  Azalia  worthy 
of  attention.  It  was  in  a  measure  the  site  and 
centre  of  a  mission  —  the  headquarters,  so  to 
speak,  of  a  very  earnest  and  patient  effort  to 
infuse  energy  and  ambition  into  that  indescrib 
able  class  of  people  known  in  that  region  as  the 


Azalia  221 

piny-woods  "Tackles."  Within  a  stone's  throw 
of  Azalia  there  was  a  scattering  settlement  of 
these  Tackies.  They  had  settled  there  before 
the  Revolution,  and  had  remained  there  ever 
since,  unchanged  and  unchangeable,  steeped  in 
poverty  of  the  most  desolate  description,  and 
living  the  narrowest  lives  possible  in  this  great 
Republic.  They  had  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  Rev.  Arthur  Hill,  an  Episcopalian  minister, 
who  conceived  an  idea  that  the  squalid  settle 
ment  near  Azalia  afforded  a  fine  field  for  mis 
sionary  labor.  Mr.  Hill  established  himself  in 
Azalia,  built  and  furnished  a  little  church  in  the 
settlement,  and  entered  on  a  career  of  the  most 
earnest  and  persevering  charity.  To  all  appear 
ances  his  labor  was  thrown  away;  but  he  was 
possessed  by  both  faith  and  hope,  and  never  al 
lowed  himself  to  be  disheartened.  All  his  time, 
as  well  as  the  modest  fortune  left  him  by  his  wife 
who  was  dead,  was  devoted  to  the  work  of  im 
proving  and  elevating  the  Tackies;  and  he  never 
permitted  himself  to  doubt  for  an  instant  that 
reasonable  success  was  crowning  his  efforts.  He 
was  gentle,  patient,  and  somewhat  finical. 


222  Free  Joe 

This  was  the  neighborhood  toward  which 
Miss  Eustis  and  her  aunt  had  journeyed.  For 
tunately  for  these  ladies,  Major  Haley,  the  ge 
nial  tavern-keeper,  had  a  habit  of  sending  a  hack 
to  meet  every  train  that  stopped  at  Little  Azalia. 
It  was  not  a  profitable  habit  in  the  long  run; 
but  Major  Haley  thought  little  of  the  profits,  so 
long  as  he  was  conscious  that  the  casual  trav 
eler  had  abundant  reason  to  be  grateful  to  him. 
Major  Haley  himself  was  a  native  of  Kentucky; 
but  his  wife  was  a  Georgian,  inheriting  her  thrift 
and  her  economy  from  a  generation  that  knew 
more  about  the  hand-loom,  the  spinning-wheel, 
and  the  cotton-cards,  than  it  did  about  the  piano. 
She  admired  her  husband,  who  was  a  large,  fine- 
looking  man,  with  jocular  tendencies;  but  she 
disposed  of  his  opinions  without  ceremony  when 
they  came  in  conflict  with  her  own.  Under  these 
circumstances  it  was  natural  that  she  should  have 
charge  of  the  tavern  and  all  that  appertained 
thereto. 

General  Garwood,  riding  by  from  Little  Aza 
lia,  whither  his  saddle-horse  had  been  sent  to 
meet  him,  had  informed  the  major  that  two 


Azalia  223 

ladies  from  the  North  were  coming  in  the  hack, 
and  begged  him  to  make  them  as  comfortable  as 
possible.  This  information  Major  Haley  duti 
fully  carried  to  his  wife. 

"Good  Lord!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Haley,  "what 
do  you  reckon  they  want  here?" 

"I've  been  a-studyin',"  said  her  husband 
thoughtfully.  "The  gener'l  says  they're  corn- 
in'  fer  their  health." 

"Well,  it's  a  mighty  fur  cry  for  health,"  said 
Mrs.  Haley  emphatically.  "I've  seen  some  mon- 
st'ous  sick  people  around  here;  and  if  anybody'll 
look  at  them  Tackies  out  on  the  Ridge  yonder, 
and  then  tell  me  there's  any  health  in  this  neigh 
borhood,  then  I'll  give  up.  I  don't  know  how 
in  the  wide  world  we'll  fix  up  for  'em.  That 
everlastin'  nigger  went  and  made  too  much  fire 
in  the  stove,  and  tee-totally  ruint  my  light-bread ; 
I  could  'a'  cried,  I  was  so  mad;  and  then  on  top 
er  that  the  whole  dinin'-room  is  tore  up  from  top 
to  bottom." 

"Well,"  said  the  major,  "we'll  try  and  make 
'em  comfortable,  and  if  they  ain't  comfortable 
it  won't  be  our  fault.  Jest  you  whirl  in,  and 


224  Free  Joe 

put  on  some  of  your  Greene  County  style,  Maria. 
That'll  fetch  'em." 

"It  may  fetch  'em,  but  it  won't  feed  'em,"  said 
the  practical  Maria. 

The  result  was,  that  when  Helen  Eustis  and 
her  aunt  became  the  guests  of  this  poor  little 
country  tavern,  they  were  not  only  agreeably 
disappointed  as  to  their  surroundings,  but  they 
were  better  pleased  than  they  would  have  been 
at  one  of  the  most  pretentious  caravansaries. 
Hotel  luxury  is  comfortable  enough  to  those  who 
make  it  a  point  to  appreciate  what  thay  pay  for; 
but  the  appointments  of  luxury  can  neither  im 
part,  nor  compensate  for  the  lack  of,  the  atmos 
phere  that  mysteriously  conveys  some  impression 
or  reminiscence  of  home.  In  the  case  of  Helen 
and  her  aunt,  this  impression  was  conveyed  and 
confirmed  by  a  quilt  of  curious  pattern  on  one 
of  the  beds  in  their  rooms. 

"My  dear,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  after  mak 
ing  a  critical  examination,  "your  grandmother 
had  just  such  a  quilt  as  this.  Yes,  she  had  two. 
I  remember  the  first  one  was  quite  a  bone  of 
contention  between  your  mother  and  me,  and  so 


Azalia  22$ 

your  grandmother  made  two.  I  declare,"  Miss 
Tewksbury  continued,  with  a  sigh,  "it  quite  car 
ries  me  back  to  old  times." 

"It  is  well  made,"  said  Helen,  giving  the 
stitches  a  critical  examination,  "and  the  colors 
are  perfectly  matched.  Really,  this  is  something 
to  think  about,  for  it  fits  none  of  our  theories. 
Perhaps,  Aunt  Harriet,  we  have  accidentally 
discovered  some  of  our  long-lost  relatives.  It 
would  be  nice  and  original  to  substitute  a 
beautiful  quilt  for  the  ordinary  strawberry- 
mark." 

"Well,  the  sight  of  it  is  comforting,  anyhow," 
said  Miss  Tewksbury,  responding  to  the  half- 
serious  humor  of  her  niece  by  pressing  her  thin 
lips  together,  and  tossing  her  gray  ringlets. 

As  she  spoke,  a  negro  boy,  apparently  about 
ten  years  old,  stalked  unceremoniously  into  the 
room,  balancing  a  large  stone  pitcher  on  his 
head.  His  hands  were  tucked  beneath  his  white 
apron,  and  the  pitcher  seemed  to  be  in  imminent 
danger  of  falling;  but  he  smiled  and  showed  his 
white  teeth. 

"I  come  fer  ter  fetch  dish  yer  pitcher  er  water, 


226  Free  Joe 

ma'm.  Miss  'Ria  say  she  speck  you  lak  fer  have 
'im  right  fresh  from  de  well." 

"Aren't  you  afraid  you'll  drop  it?"  said  Miss 
Eustis. 

"Lor',  no'm!"  exclaimed  the  boy,  emphasizing 
his  words  by  increasing  his  grin.  "I  been  ca'um 
dis  away  sence  I  ain't  no  bigger  dan  my  li'l' 
buddy.  Miss  'Ria,  she  say  dat  w'at  make  I  so 
bow-legged." 

"What  is  your  name?"  inquired  Miss  Tewks- 
bury,  with  some  degree  of  solemnity,  as  the  boy 
deposited  the  pitcher  on  the  wash-stand. 

"Mammy  she  say  I  un  name  Willum,  but 
Mars  Maje  en  de  turrer  folks  dey  des  calls  me 
Bill.  I  run'd  off  en  sot  in  de  school-'ouse  all 
day  one  day,  but  dat  mus'  'a'  been  a  mighty  bad 
day,  kaze  I  ain't  never  year  um  say  wherrer  I 
wuz  name  Willum,  er  wherrer  I  wuz  des  name 
Bill.  Miss  'Ria,  she  say  dat  'taint  make  no  dif- 
funce  w'at  folks'  name  is,  long  ez  dey  come  w'en 
dey  year  turred  folks  holl'in'  at  um." 

"Don't  you  go  to  school,  child?"  Miss  Tewks- 
bury  inquired,  with  dignified  sympathy. 

"I  start  in  once,"  said  William,  laughing,  "but 


227 

mos'  time  I  git  dar  de  nigger  man  w'at  do  de 
teachin'  tuck'n  snatch  de  book  out'n  my  ban'  en 
say  I  got  'im  upper-side  down.  I  tole  'im  dat  de 
onliest  way  w'at  I  kin  git  my  lesson,  en  den  dat 
nigger  man  tuck'n  lam  me  side  de  head.  Den 
atter  school  bin  turn  out,  I  is  hide  myse'f  side  de 
road,  en  w'en  dat  nigger  man  come  'long,  I  up 
wid  a  rock  en  I  fetched  'im  a  clip  dat  mighty 
nigh  double  'im  up.  You  ain't  never  is  year  no 
nigger  man  holler  lak  dat  nigger  man.  He 
run't  en  tole  Mars  Peyt  dat  de  Kukluckers  wuz 
atter  'im.  Mars  Peyt  he  try  ter  quiet  'em,  but 
dat  nigger  man  done  gone!" 

"Don't  you  think  you  did  wrong  to  hit  him?" 
Miss  Tewksbury  asked. 

"Dat  w'at  Miss  'Ria  say.  She  say  I  oughter 
be  shame  er  myse'f  by  good  rights;  but  w'at  dat 
nigger  man  wanter  come  hurtin'  my  feelin'  fer 
w'en  I  settin'  dar  studyin'  my  lesson  des  hard 
ez  I  kin,  right  spank  out'n  de  book?  en  spozen 
she  wuz  upper-side  down,  wa'n't  de  lesson  in 
dar  all  de  time,  kaze  how  she  gwine  spill 
out?" 

William  was  very  serious — indeed,  he  was  in- 


228  Free  Joe 

dignant  —  when  he  closed  his  argument.  He 
turned  to  go  out,  but  paused  at  the  door,  and 
said: 

"Miss  'Ria  say  supper  be  ready  'mos'  'fo'  you 
kin  turn  'roun',  but  she  say  ef  you  too  tired  out 
she'll  have  it  sont  up."  William  paused,  rolled 
his  eyes  toward  the  ceiling,  smacked  his  mouth, 
and  added:  "I  gwine  fetch  in  de  batter-cakes 
myse'f." 

Miss  Tewksbury  felt  in  her  soul  that  she  ought 
to  be  horrified  at  this  recital ;  but  she  was  grate 
ful  that  she  was  not  amused. 

"Aunt  Harriet,"  cried  Helen,  when  William 
had  disappeared,  "this  is  better  than  the  sea 
shore.  I  am  stronger  already.  My  only  regret 
is  that  Henry  P.  Bassett,  the  novelist,  is  not  here. 
The  last  time  I  saw  him,  he  was  moping  and 
complaining  that  his  occupation  was  almost 
gone,  because  he  had  exhausted  all  the  types— 
that's  what  he  calls  them.  He  declared  he  would 
be  compelled  to  take  his  old  characters,  and  give 
them  a  new  outfit  of  emotions.  Oh,  if  he  were 
only  here!" 

"I    hope   you    feel    that   you    are,    in    some 


Azalia  229 

sense,  responsible  for  all  this,  Helen,"  said  Miss 
Tewksbury  solemnly. 

"Do  you  mean  the  journey,  Aunt  Harriet,  or 
the  little  negro?" 

"My  dear  child,  don't  pretend  to  misunder 
stand  me.  I  can  not  help  feeling  that  if  we  had 
done  and  were  doing  our  whole  duty,  this — this 
poor  negro—  Ah,  well!  it  is  useless  to  speak  of 
it.  We  are  on  missionary  ground,  but  our  hands 
are  tied.  Oh,  I  wish  Elizabeth  Mappis  were 
here!  She  would  teach  us  our  duty." 

"She  wouldn't  teach  me  mine,  Aunt  Harriet," 
said  Helen  seriously.  "I  wouldn't  give  one  grain 
of  your  common  sense  for  all  that  Elizabeth 
Mappis  has  written  and  spoken.  What  have 
her  wild  theories  to  do  with  these  people?  She 
acts  like  a  man  in  disguise.  When  I  see  her 
striding  about,  delivering  her  harangues,  I  al 
ways  imagine  she  is  wearing  a  pair  of  cowhide 
boots  as  a  sort  of  stimulus  to  her  masculinity. 
Ugh!  I'm  glad  she  isn't  here." 

Ordinarily,  Miss  Tewksbury  would  have  de 
fended  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Mappis;  but  she  remem 
bered  that  a  defense  of  that  remarkable  woman 


230  Free  Joe 

—as  remarkable  for  her  intellect  as  for  -er  cour 
age — was  unnecessary  at  all  times,  and,  in  this 
instance,  absolutely  uncalled  for.  Moreover, 
the  clangor  of  the  supper-bell,  which  rang  out 
at  that  moment,  would  have  effectually  drowned 
out  whatever  Miss  Tewksbury  might  have 
chosen  to  say  in  behalf  of  Mrs.  Mappis. 

The  bellringer  was  William,  the  genial  little 
negro  whose  acquaintance  the  ladies  had  made, 
and  he  performed  his  duty  with  an  unction  that 
left  nothing  to  be  desired.  The  bell  was  so  large 
that  William  was  compelled  to  use  both  hands 
in  swinging  it.  He  bore  it  from  the  dining-room 
to  the  hall,  and  thence  from  one  veranda  to  the 
other,  making  fuss  enough  to  convince  every 
body  that  those  who  ate  at  the  tavern  were  on 
the  point  of  enjoying  another  of  the  famous 
meals  prepared  under  the  supervision  of  Mrs. 
Haley. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  dining-room  to  in 
vite  the  criticism  of  Helen  and  her  aunt,  even 
though  they  had  been  disposed  to  be  critical; 
there  was  no  evidence  of  slatternly  management. 
Everything  was  plain,  but  neat.  The  ceiling  was 


Azalia  23  r 

high  and  wide;  and  the  walls  were  of  dainty 
whiteness,  relieved  here  and  there  by  bracket- 
shelves  containing  shiny  crockery  and  glassware. 
The  oil-lamps  gave  a  mellow  light  through  the 
simple  but  unique  paper  shades  with  which  they 
had  been  fitted.  Above  the  table,  which  ex 
tended  the  length  of  the  room,  was  suspended 
a  series  of  large  fans.  These  fans  were  con 
nected  by  a  cord,  so  that  when  it  became  neces 
sary  to  cool  the  room,  or  to  drive  away  the  flies, 
one  small  negro,  by  pulling  a  string,  could  set 
them  all  in  motion. 

Over  this  dining-room  Mrs.  Haley  presided. 
She  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  serene,  cheerful, 
and  watchful,  anticipating  the  wants  of  each  and 
every  one  who  ate  at  the  board.  She  invited 
Helen  and  her  aunt  to  seats  near  her  own,  and 
somehow  managed  to  convince  them,  veteran 
travelers  though  they  were,  that  hospitality  such 
as  hers  was  richly  worth  paying  for. 

"I  do  hope  you'll  make  out  to  be  comfortable 
in  this  poor  little  neighborhood,"  she  said  as  the 
ladies  lingered  over  their  tea,  after  the  other 
boarders — the  clerks  and  the  shopkeepers — had 


232  Free  Joe 

bolted  their  food  and  fare.  "I  have  my  hopes, 
and  I  have  my  doubts.  Gener'l  Garwood  says 
you're  come  to  mend  your  health,"  she  con 
tinued,  regarding  the  ladies  with  the  critical  eye 
of  one  who  has  had  something  to  do  with  herbs 
and  simples;  "and  I've  been  tryin'  my  best  to 
pick  out  which  is  the  sick  one,  but  it's  a  mighty 
hard  matter.  Yet  I  won't  go  by  looks,  because 
if  folks  looked  bad  every  time  they  felt  bad, 
they'd  be  some  mighty  peaked  people  in  this 
world  off  and  on — William,  run  and  fetch  in 
some  hot  batter-cakes." 

"I  am  the  alleged  invalid,"  said  Helen.  "I 
am  the  victim  of  a  conspiracy  between  my  aunt 
here  and  our  family  physician, — Aunt  Harriet, 
what  do  you  suppose  Dr.  Buxton  would  say  if 
he  knew  how  comfortable  we  are  at  this  mo 
ment?  I  dare  say  he  would  write  a  letter,  and 
order  us  off  to  some  other  point." 

"My  niece,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  by  way  of 
explanation,  "has  weak  lungs,  but  she  has  never 
permitted  herself  to  acknowledge  the  fact." 

"Well,  my  goodness!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Haley, 
"if  that's  all,  we'll  have  her  sound  and  well  in 


Azalia  233 

a  little  or  no  time.  Why,  when  I  was  her  age 
I  had  a  hackin'  cough  and  a  rackin'  pain  in  my 
breast  night  and  day,  and  I  fell  off  till  my  own 
blood  kin  didn't  know  me.  Everybody  give  me 
up;  but  old  Miss  Polly  Flanders  in  Hancock, 
right  j'inin'  county  from  Greene,  she  sent  me 
word  to  make  me  some  mullein  tea,  and  drink 
sweet  milk  right  fresh  from  the  cow;  and  from 
that  day  to  this  I've  never  know'd  what  weak 
lungs  was.  I  reckon  you'll  be  mighty  lonesome 
here,"  said  Mrs.  Haley  after  William  had  re 
turned  with  a  fresh  supply  of  batter-cakes,  "but 
you'll  find  folks  mighty  neighborly,  once  you 
come  to  know  'em.  And,  bless  goodness,  here's 
one  of  'em  now! — Howdy,  Emma  Jane?" 

A  tall,  ungainly-looking  woman  stood  in  the 
door  of  the  dining-room  leading  to  the  kitchen. 
Her  appearance  showed  the  most  abject  poverty. 
Her  dirty  sunbonnet  had  fallen  back  from  her 
head,  and  hung  on  her  shoulders.  Her  hair  was 
of  a  reddish-gray  color,  and  its  frazzled  and  tan 
gled  condition  suggested  that  the  woman  had 
recently  passed  through  a  period  of  extreme  ex 
citement;  but  this  suggestion  was  promptly  cor- 


234  Free  Joe 

rected  by  the  wonderful  serenity  of  her  face — 
a  pale,  unhealthy-looking  face,  with  sunken  eyes, 
high  cheek-bones,  and  thin  lips  that  seemed 
never  to  have  troubled  themselves  to  smile:  a 
burnt-out  face  that  had  apparently  surrendered 
to  the  past,  and  had  no  hope  for  the  future.  The 
Puritan  simplicity  of  the  woman's  dress  made 
her  seem  taller  than  she  really  was,  but  this  was 
the  only  illusion  about  her.  Though  her  ap 
pearance  was  uncouth  and  ungainly,  her  man 
ner  was  unembarrassed.  She  looked  at  Helen 
with  some  degree  of  interest;  and  to  the  latter 
it  seemed  that  Misery,  hopeless  but  unabashed, 
gazed  at  her  with  a  significance  at  once  pathetic 
and  appalling.  In  response  to  Mrs.  Haley's 
salutation,  the  woman  seated  herself  in  the  door 
way,  and  sighed. 

"You  must  be  tired,  Emma  Jane,  not  to  say 
howdy,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  with  a  smile.  The 
woman  raised  her  right  hand  above  her  head, 
and  allowed  it  to  drop  helplessly  into  her  lap. 

uTi-ud!  Lordy,  Lordy!  how  kin  a  pore  cree- 
tur'  like  me  be  ti-ud?  Hain't  I  thes  natally 
made  out'n  i'on?" 


Azalia  235 

"Well,  I  won't  go  so  fur  as  to  say  that,  Emma 
Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  "but  you're  mighty 
tough.  Now,  you  know  that  yourself." 

"Yes'n — yes'n.  I'm  made  out'n  i'on.  Lordy, 
Lordy!  I  thes  natally  hone  fer  some  un  ter 
come  along  an'  tell  me  what  makes  me  h'ist  up 
an'  walk  away  over  yan'ter  the  railroad  track, 
an'  set  thar  tell  the  ingine  shoves  by.  I  wisht 
some  un  ud  up  an'  tell  me  what  makes  me  so 
restless  an'  oneasy,  ef  it  hain't  'cause  I'm  hongry. 
I  thes  wisht  they  would.  JPassin'  on  by,  I  sez 
ter  myself,  s'  I:  'Emma  Jane  Stucky,'  s'  I,  'ef 
you  know  what's  good  fer  your  wholesome,'  s'  I, 
'you'll  sneak  in  on  Miss  Haley,  'cause  you'll  feel 
better,'  s'  I,  'ef  you  don't  no  more'n  tell  'er 
howdy,'  s'  I.  Lordy,  Lordy!  I  dunner  what  ud 
'come  er  me  ef  I  hadn't  a  bin  made  out'n  i'on." 

"Emma  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  is  humoring  a  child,  "these  ladies 
are  from  the  North." 

"Yes'n,"  said  the  woman,  glancing  at  Helen 
and  her  aunt  with  the  faintest  expression  of  pity; 
"yes'n,  I  hearn  tell  you  had  comp'ny.  Hit's  a 
mighty  long  ways  fum  this,  the  North,  hain't  it, 


236  Free  Joe 

Miss  Haley — a  long  ways  fuder'n  Tennissy? 
Well,  the  Lord  knows  I  pity  um  fum  the  bottom 
of  my  heart,  that  I  do — a-bein'  such  a  long 
ways  fum  home." 

"The  North  is  ever  so  much  farther  than  Ten 
nessee,"  said  Helen  pleasantly,  almost  uncon 
sciously  assuming  the  tone  employed  by  Mrs. 
Haley;  "but  the  weather  is  so  very  cold  there 
that  we  have  to  run  away  sometimes." 

"You're  right,  honey,"  said  Mrs.  Stucky,  hug 
ging  herself  with  h^r  long  arms.  "I  wisht  I 
could  run  away  fum  it  myself.  Ef  I  wa'n't  made 
out'n  i'on,  I  dunner  how  I'd  stan'  it.  Lordy! 
when  the  win'  sets  in  from  the  east,  hit  in-about 
runs  me  plum  destracted.  Hit  kills  lots  an'  lots 
er  folks,  but  they  hain't  made  out'n  i'on  like  me." 

While  Mrs.  Stucky  was  describing  the  vig 
orous  constitution  that  had  enabled  her  to  sur 
vive  in  the  face  of  various  difficulties,  and  in 
spite  of  many  mishaps,  Mrs.  Haley  was  en 
gaged  in  making  up  a  little  parcel  of  victuals. 
This  she  handed  to  the  woman. 

"Thanky-do!  thanky-do,  ma'am!  Me  an'  my 
son'll  set  down  an'  wallop  this  up,  an'  say 


AzaVia  237 

thanky-do  all  the  time,  an'  atter  we're  done 
we'll  wipe  our  mouves,  an'  say  thanky-do." 

"I  reckon  you  ladies'll  think  we're  mighty 
queer  folks  down  here,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  with 
an  air  of  apology,  after  Mrs.  Stucky  had  re 
tired;  "but  I  declare  I  can't  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  treat  that  poor  creetur'  out  of  the  way.  I  set 
and  look  at  her  sometimes,  and  I  wish  I  may 
never  budge  if  I  don't  come  mighty  nigh  cryin'. 
She  ain't  hardly  fittin'  to  live,  and  if  she's  fittin' 
to  die,  she's  lots  better  off  than  the  common  run 
of  folks.  But  she's  mighty  worrysome.  She 
pesters  me  lots  mor'n  I  ever  let  on." 

"The  poor  creature!"  exclaimed  Miss  Tewks- 
bury.  "I  am  truly  sorry  for  her — truly  sorry." 

"Ah!  so  am  I,"  said  Helen.  "I  propose  to 
see  more  of  her.  I  am  interested  in  just  such 
people." 

"Well,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Haley  dryly,  "if 
you  like  sech  folks  it's  a  thousand  pities  you've 
come  here,  for  you'll  git  a  doste  of  'em.  Yes'm, 
that  you  will;  a  doste  of  'em  that'll  last  you  as 
long  as  you  live,  if  you  live  to  be  one  of  the 
patrioks.  And  you  nee'nter  be  sorry  for  Emma 


238  Free  Joe 

Jane  Stucky  neither.  Jest  as  you  see  her  now, 
jesso  she's  been  a-goin'  on  fer  twenty  year,  an' 
jest  as  you  see  her  now,  jesso  she's  been  a-look- 
in'  ev'ry  sence  anybody  around  here  has  been 
a-knowin'  her." 

"Her  history  must  be  a  pathetic  one,"  said 
Miss  Tewksbury  with  a  sigh. 

"Her  what,  ma'am?"  asked  Mrs.  Haley. 

"Her  history,  the  story  of  her  life,"  responded 
Miss  Tewksbury.  "I  dare  say  it  is  very  touch- 
ing." 

"Well,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  "Emma 
Jane  Stucky  is  like  one  of  them  there  dead  pines 
out  there  in  the  clearin'.  If  you  had  a  stack  of 
almanacs  as  high  as  a  boss-rack,  you  couldn't 
pick  out  the  year  she  was  young  and  sappy.  She 
must  'a'  started  out  as  a  light'd  knot,  an'  she's 
been  a-gittin'  tougher  year  in  an'  year  out,  till 
now  she's  tougher'n  the  toughest.  No'm,"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  Haley,  replying  to  an  imaginary 
argument,  "I  ain't  predijiced  ag'in'  the  poor 
creetur' — the  Lord  knows  I  ain't.  If  I  was,  no 
vittels  would  she  git  from  me — not  a  scrimp- 
tion." 


Azalla  239 

"I  never  saw  such  an  expression  on  a  human 
countenance,"  said  Helen.  "Her  eyes  will  haunt 
me  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Bless  your  soul  and  body,  child!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Haley;  "if  you're  going  to  let  that  poor 
creetur's  looks  pester  you,  you'll  be  worried  to 
death,  as  certain  as  the  world.  There's  a  hun- 
derd  in  this  settlement  jest  like  her,  and  ther' 
must  be  more'n  that,  old  an'  young,  'cause  the 
children  look  to  be  as  old  as  the'r  grannies.  I 
reckon  maybe  you  ain't  used  to  seein'  piny-woods 
Tackies.  Well,  ma'am,  you  wait  till  you  come 
to  know  'em,  and  if  you  are  in  the  habits  of 
bein'  ha'nted  by  looks,  you'll  be  the  wuss  ha'nted 
mortal  in  this  land,  'less'n  it's  them  that's  got  the 
sperrit-rappin's  after  'em." 

IV 

MRS.  STUCKY,  making  her  way  homeward 
through  the  gathering  dusk,  moved  as  noise 
lessly  and  as  swiftly  as  a  ghost.  The  soft  white 
sand  beneath  her  feet  gave  forth  no  sound,  and 
she  seemed  to  be  gliding  forward,  rather  than 


240  Free  Joe 

walking;  though  there  was  a  certain  awkward 
emphasis  and  decision  in  her  movements  alto 
gether  human  in  their  suggestions.  The  way 
was  lonely.  There  was  no  companionship  for 
her  in  the  whispering  sighs  of  the  tall  pines  that 
stood  by  the  roadside,  no  friendliness  in  the 
constellations  that  burned  and  sparkled  over 
head,  no  hospitable  suggestion  in  the  lights  that 
gleamed  faintly  here  and  there  from  the  win 
dows  of  the  houses  in  the  little  settlement.  To 
Mrs.  Stucky  all  was  commonplace.  There  was 
nothing  in  her  surroundings  as  she  went  toward 
her  home,  to  lend  wings  even  to  her  superstition, 
which  was  eager  to  assert  itself  on  all  occasions. 
It  was  not  much  of  a  home  to  which  she  was 
making  her  way — a  little  log-cabin  in  a  pine 
thicket,  surrounded  by  a  little  clearing  that 
served  to  show  how  aimlessly  and  how  hope 
lessly  the  lack  of  thrift  and  energy  could  assert 
itself.  The  surroundings  were  mean  enough  and 
squalid  enough  at  their  best,  but  the  oppressive 
shadows  of  night  made  them  meaner  and  more 
squalid  than  they  really  were.  The  sun,  which 
shines  so  lavishly  in  that  region,  appeared  to 


Azalla  241 

glorify  the  squalor,  showing  wild  passion-flowers 
clambering  along  the  broken-down  fence  of  pine 
poles,  and  a  wistaria  vine  running  helter-skelter 
across  the  roof  of  the  little  cabin.  But  the  night 
hid  all  this  completely. 

A  dim,  vague  blaze,  springing  from  a  few 
charred  pine-knots,  made  the  darkness  visible  in 
the  one  room  of  the  cabin;  and  before  it,  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  chin  in  his 
hands,  sat  what  appeared  to  be  a  man.  He 
wore  neither  coat  nor  shoes,  and  his  hair  was 
long  and  shaggy. 

"Is  that  you,  Bud?"  said  Mrs.  Stucky. 
"Why,  who'd  you  reckon  it  wuz,  maw?"  re 
plied  Bud,  looking  up  with  a  broad  grin  that 
iwas  not  at  all  concealed  by  his  thin,  sandy  beard. 
"A  body'd  sorter  think,  ef  they  'uz  ter  ketch  you 
gwine  on  that  away,  that  you  'spected  ter  find 
some  great  somebody  er  nuther  a-roostin'  in 
here." 

Mrs.  Stucky,  by  way  of  responding,  stirred 
'the  pine-knots  until  they  gave  forth  a  more  sat 
isfactory  light,  hung  her  bonnet  on  the  bedpost, 
and  seated  herself  wearily  in  a  rickety  chair,  the 

VOL.  3  ii 


242  Free  Joe 

loose  planks  of  the  floor  rattling  and  shaking  as 
she  moved  about. 

"Now,  who  in  the  nation  did  you  reckon 
it  wuz,  maw?"  persisted  Bud,  still  grinning 
placidly. 

"Some  great  somebody,"  replied  Mrs.  Stucky, 
brushing  her  gray  hair  out  of  her  eyes  and  look 
ing  at  her  son.  At  this  Bud  could  contain  him 
self  no  longer.  He  laughed  almost  uproari 
ously. 

"Well,  the  great  Jemimy!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
then  laughed  louder  than  ever. 

"Wher've  you  been?"  Mrs.  Stucky  asked, 
when  Bud's  mirth  had  subsided. 

"Away  over  yander  at  the  depot,"  said  Bud, 
indicating  Little  Azalia.  "An'  I  fotch  you 
some  May-pops  too.  I  did  that!  I  seed  'em 
while  I  wuz  a-gwine  'long,  an'  I  sez  ter  my 
self,  sezee,  'You  jess  wait  thar  tell  I  come 
'long  back,  an'  I'll  take  an'  take  you  ter  maw,' 


sezee." 


Although  this  fruit  of  the  passion-flowers  was 
growing  in  profusion  right  at  the  door,  Mrs. 
Stucky  gave  this  grown  man,  her  son,  to  under- 


Azalla  243 

stand  that  May-pops  such  as  he  brought  were 
very  desirable  indeed. 

"I  wonder  you  didn't  fergit  'em,"  she  said. 

"Who?  me!"  exclaimed  Bud.  "I  jess  like  fer 
ter  see  anybody  ketch  me  fergittin'  'em.  Now 
I  jess  would.  I  never  eat  a  one,  nuther — not  a 


one." 


Mrs.  Stucky  made  no  response  to  this,  and 
none  seemed  to  be  necessary.  Bud  sat  and  pulled 
his  thin  beard,  and  gazed  in  the  fire.  Presently 
he  laughed  and  said: 

"I  jess  bet  a  hoss  you  couldn't  guess  who  I 
seed ;  now  I  jess  bet  that." 

Mrs.  Stucky  rubbed  the  side  of  her  face 
thoughtfully,  and  seemed  to  be  making  a  tre 
mendous  effort  to  imagine  whom  Bud  had 
seen. 

"  '.Twer'n't  no  man,  en  'twer'n't  no  Azalia 
folks.  'Twuz  a  gal." 

"A  gal!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Stucky. 

"Yes'n,  a  gal,  an'  ef  she  wa'n't  a  zooner  you 
may  jess  take  an'  knock  my  chunk  out." 

Mrs.  Stucky  looked  at  her  son  curiously.  Her 
cold  gray  eyes  glittered  in  the  firelight  as  she 


244  Free  Joe 

held  them  steadily  on  his  face.  Bud,  conscious 
of  this  inspection,  moved  about  in  his  chair 
uneasily,  shifting  his  feet  from  one  side  to  the 
other. 

"  Twer'n't  no  Sal  Badger,"  he  said,  after 
a  while,  laughing  sheepishly;  "  'twer'n't  no 
Maria  Matthews,  'twer'n't  no  Lou  Hornsby, 
an'  'twer'n't  no  Martha  Jane  Williams,  nuther. 
She  wuz  a  bran'-new  gal,  an'  she  went  ter  the 
tavern,  she  did." 

"I've  done  saw  'er,"  said  Mrs.  Stucky  placidly. 

"You  done  saw  'er,  maw!"  exclaimed  Bud. 
"Well,  the  great  Jemimy!  What's  her  name, 
maw?" 

"They  didn't  call  no  names,"  said  Mrs.  Stucky. 
"They  jess  sot  thar,  an'  gormandized  on  waffles 
an'  batter-cakes,  an'  didn't  call  no  names.  Hit 
made  me  dribble  at  the  mouf,  the  way  they 
went  on." 

"Wuz  she  purty,  maw?" 

"I  sot  an'  looked  at  um,"  Mrs.  Stucky  went 
on,  "an5  I  'lowed  maybe  the  war  moughter  come 
betwixt  the  old  un  an'  her  good  looks.  The 
t'other  one  looks  mighty  slick,  but,  Lordy!  She 


Azalia  245 

hain't  nigh  ez  slick  ez  that  ar  Lou  Hornsby;  yit 
she's  got  lots  purtier  motions." 

"Well,  I  seed  'er,  maw,"  said  Bud,  gazing 
into  the  depths  of  the  fireplace.  "Atter  the  in- 
gine  come  a-snortin'  by,  I  jumped  up  behind  the 
hack  whar  they  puts  the  trunks,  an'  I  got  a  right 
good  glimp'  un  'er;  an'  ef  she  hain't  purty,  then 
I  dunner  what  purty  is.  What'd  you  say  her 
name  wuz,  maw?" 

"Lordy,  jess  hark  ter  the  creetur!  Hain't  I 
jess  this  minute  hollered,  an'  tole  you  that  they 
hain't  called  no  names?" 

"I  'lowed  maybe  you  moughter  hearn  the 
name  named,  an'  then  .drapt  it,"  said  Bud,  still 
gazing  into  the  fire.  "I  tell  you  what,  she  made 
that  ole  hack  look  big,  she  did!" 

"You  talk  like  you  er  start  crazy,  Bud!"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Stucky,  leaning  over,  and  fixing 
her  glittering  eyes  on  his  face.  "Lordy! 
what's  she  by  the  side  er  me?  Is  she  made 
out'n  i'on?" 

Bud's  enthusiasm  immediately  vanished,  and 
a  weak,  flickering  smile  took  possession  of  his 
face. 


246  Free  Joe 

"No'm — no'm;  that  she  hain't  made  out'n 
i'on!  She's  lots  littler'n  you  is — lots  littler.  She 
looks  like  she's  sorry." 

"Sorry!    What  fer?" 

"Sorry  fer  we-all." 

Mrs.  Stucky  looked  at  her  son  with  amaze 
ment,  not  unmixed  with  indignation.  Then  she 
seemed  to  remember  something  she  had  for 
gotten. 

"Sorry  fer  we-all,  honey,  when  we  er  got  this 
great  big  pile  er  tavern  vittles?"  she  asked  with 
a  smile;  an'd  tKen  the  two. fell  to,  and  made  the 
most  of  Mrs.  Haley's  charity. 

At  the  tavern  Helen  and  her  aunt  sat  long  at 
their  tea,  listening  to  the  quaint  gossip  of  Mrs. 
Haley,  which  not  only  toolc  a  wide  and  enter 
taining  range,  but  entered  into  details  that  her 
guests  found  extremely  interesting.  Miss  Tewks- 
bury's  name  reminded  Mrs.  Haley  of  a  Miss 
Kingsbury,  a  Northern  lady,  who  had  taught 
school,  in  Middle  Georgia,  and  who  had  "writ 
a  sure-enough  book,"  as  the  genial  landlady  ex 
pressed  it.  She  went  to  the  trouble  of  hunting 
up  this  "sure-enough"  book — a  small  school  die- 


Azalia  247 

tionary — and  gave  many  reminiscences  of  her 
acquaintance  with  the  author. 

In  the  small  parlor,  too,  the  ladies  found  Gen 
eral  Garwood  awaiting  them;  and  they  held 
quite  a  little  reception,  forming  the  acquaintance, 
among  others,  of  Miss  Lou  Hornsby,  a  fresh- 
looking  young  woman,  who  had  an  exclamation 
of  surprise  or  a  grimace  of  wonder  for  every 
statement  she  heard  and  for  every  remark  that 
was  made.  Miss  Hornsby  also  went  to  the  piano, 
and  played  and  sang  "Nelly  Gray"  and  "Lily 
Dale"  with  a  dramatic  fervor  that  could  only 
have  been  acquired  in  a  boarding  school.  The 
Rev.  Arthur  Hill  was  also  there,  a  little  gentle 
man,  whose  side-whiskers  and  modest  deport 
ment  betokened  both  refinement  and  sensibility. . 
He  was  very  cordial  to  the  two  ladies  from  the 
North,  and  strove  to  demonstrate  the  liberality 
of  his  cloth  by  a  certain  gaiety  of  manner  that 
was  by  no  means  displeasing.  He  seemed  to 
consider  himself  one  of  the  links  of  sociability, 
as  well  as  master  of  ceremonies;  and  he  had  a 
way  of  speaking  for  others  that  suggested  con 
siderable  social  tact  and  versatility.  Thus,  when 


248  Free  Joe 

there  was  a  lull  in  the  conversation,  he  started 
it  again,  and  imparted  to  it  a  vivacity  that  was 
certainly  remarkable,  as  Helen  thought  At 
precisely  the  proper  moment,  he  seized  Miss 
Hornsby,  and  bore  her  off  home,  tittering 
sweetly  as  only  a  young  girl  can;  and  the 
others,  following  the  example  thus  happily 
set,  left  Helen  and  her  aunt  to  themselves, 
and  to  the  repose  that  tired  travelers  are  sup 
posed  to  be  in  need  of.  They  were  not  long 
in  seeking  it. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Helen,  after  she  and  her 
aunt  had  gone  to  bed,  "if  these  people  really 
regard  us  as  enemies?" 

This  question  caused  Miss  Tewksbury  to  sniff 
the  air  angrily. 

"Pray,  what  difference  does  it  make?"  she 
replied. 

"Oh,  none  at  all!"  said  Helen.  "I  was  just 
thinking.  The  little  preacher  was  tremendously 
gay.  His  mind  seemed  to  be  on  skates.  He 
touched  on  every  subject  but  the  war,  and  that 
he  glided  around  gracefully.  No  doubt  they 
have  had  enough  of  war  down  here." 


Azalia  249 

"I  should  hope  so,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury. 
"Go  to  sleep,  child :  you  need  rest." 

Helen  did  not  follow  this  timely  advice  at 
once.  From  her  window  she  could  see  the  con 
stellations  dragging  their  glittering  procession 
westward;  and  she  knew  that  the  spirit  of  the 
night  was  whispering  gently  in  the  tall  pines, 
but  her  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl.  The  scenes 
through  which  she  had  passed,  and  the  people 
she  had  met,  were  new  to  her;  and  she  lay  awake 
and  thought  of  them  until  at  last  the  slow-mov 
ing  stars  left  her  wrapped  in  sleep — a  sleep  from 
which  she  was  not  aroused  until  William  shook 
the  foundations  of  the  tavern  with  his  melodious 
bell,  informing  everybody  that  the  hour  for 
breakfast  had  arrived. 

Shortly  afterward,  William  made  his  appear 
ance  in  person,  bringing  an  abundance  of  fresh, 
clear  water.  He  appeared  to  be  in  excellent 
humor. 

"What  did  you  say  your  name  is?"  Helen 
asked.  William  chuckled,  as  if  he  thought  the 
question  was  in  the  nature  of  a  joke. 

"I'm  name'  Willum,  ma'am,  en  my  mammy 


250  Tree  Joe 

she  name7  Sa'er  Jane,  en  de  baby  she  name' 
Phillypeener.  Miss  'Ria  she  say  dat  baby  is 
de  likelies'  nigger  baby  w'at  she  y'ever  been  see 
sence  de  war  en  I  speck  she  is,  kaze  Miss  'Ria 
ain't  been  talk  dat  away  'bout  eve'y  nigger  baby 
w'at  come  'long." 

"How  old  are  you?"  Miss  ?Tewksbury  in 
quired. 

"I  dunno'm,"  said  William  placidly.  "Miss 
'Ria  she  says  I'm  lots  older  dan  w'at  I  looks 
ter  be,  en  I  speck  dat's  so,  kaze  mammy  sey  dey 
got  ter  be  a  runt  'mongst  all  folks's  famblies." 

Helen  laughed,  and  William  went  on : 

"Mammy  say  ole  Miss  gwine  come  see  you 
all.  Mars  Peyt  gwine  bring  er." 

"Who  is  old  Miss?"  Helen  asked. 

William  gazed  at  her  with  unfeigned  amuse 
ment. 

"Dunner  who  ole  Miss  Is?  Lordy!  you  de 
fus'  folks  w'at  ain't  know  ole  Miss.  She  Mars 
Peyt's  own  mammy,  dat's  who  she  is,  en  ef  she 
come  lak  dey  say  she  comin',  hit'll  be  de  fus' 
time  she  y'ever  sot  foot  in  dish  yer  tavern  less'n 
'twuz  indurance  er  de  war.  Miss  'Ria  say  she 


Azalia  251 

wish  ter  goodness  ole  Miss  'ud  sen'  word  ef  she 
gwine  stay  ter  dinner  so  she  kin  fix  up  somepin 
n'er  nice.  I  dunno  whe'er  Miss  Hallie  comin' 
er  no,  but  ole  Miss  comin',  sho,  kaze  I  done  been 
year  um  sesso." 

"And  who  is  Miss  Hallie?"  Helen  inquired, 
as  William  still  lingered. 

"Miss  Hallie — she — dunno'm,  ceppin'  she  des 
stays  dar  'long  wid  um.  Miss  'Ria  say  she 
mighty  quare,  but  I  wish  turrer  folks  wuz  quare 
lak  Miss  Hallie." 

William  stayed  until  he  was  called  away,  and 
at  breakfast  Mrs.  Haley  imparted  the  informa 
tion  which,  in  William's  lingo,  had  sounded 
somewhat  scrappy.  It  was  to  the  effect  that 
General  Garwood's  mother  would  call  on  the 
ladies  during  their  stay.  Mrs.  Haley  laid  great 
stress  on  the  statement. 

"Such  an  event  seems  to  be  very  interesting," 
Helen  said  rather  dryly. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  with  her  peculiar 
emphasis,  "it  ruther  took  me  back  when  I  heard 
the  niggers  takin'  about  it  this  mornin'.  If  that 
old  lady  has  ever  darkened  my  door,  I've  done 


252  Free  Joe 

forgot  it.  She's  mighty  nice  and  neighborly," 
Mrs.  Haley  went  on,  in  response  to  a  smile  which 
'Helen  gave  her  aunt,  "but  she  don't  go  out 
much.  Oh,  she's  nice  and  proud;  Lord,  if  pride 
'ud  kill  a  body,  that  old  'oman  would  'a'  been 
dead  too  long  ago  to  talk  about.  They're  all 
proud — the  whole  kit  and  b'ilin'.  She  mayn't 
be  too  proud  to  come  to  this  here  tavern,  but  I 
know  she  ain't  never  been  here.  The  preacher 
used  to  say  that  pride  drives  out  grace,  but  I 
don't  believe  it,  because  that  'ud  strip  the 
Garwoods  of  all  they've  got  in  this  world; 
and  I  know  they're  just  as  good  as  they 
can  be." 

"I  heard  the  little  negro  boy  talking  of  Miss 
Hallie,"  said  Helen.  "Pray,  who  is  she?" 

Mrs.  Haley  closed  her  eyes,  threw  her  head 
back,  and  laughed  softly. 

"The  poor  child!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  declare, 
I  feel  like  cryin'  every  time  I  think  about  her. 
She's  the  forlornest  poor  creetur  the  Lord  ever 
let  live,  and  one  of  the  best.  Sometimes,  when 
I  git  tore  up  in  my  mind,  and  begin  to  think  that 
everything's  wrong-end  foremost,  I  jess  think  of 


Azalia  253 

Hallie  Garwood,  and  then  I  don't  have  no  more 
trouble." 

Both  Helen  and  her  aunt  appeared  to  be  in 
terested,  and  Mrs.  Haley  went  on: 

"The  poor  child  was  a  Herndon;  I  reckon 
you've  heard  tell  of  the  Virginia  Herndons.  At 
the  beginning  of  the  war,  she  was  married  to 
Ethel  Garwood;  and,  bless  your  life,  she  hadn't 
been  married  more'n  a  week  before  Ethel  was 
killed.  'Twa'n't  in  no  battle,  but  jess  in  a  kind 
of  skirmish.  They  fotch  him  home,  and  Hallie 
come  along  with  him,  and  right  here  she's  been 
ev'ry  sence.  She  does  mighty  quare.  She  don't 
wear  nothin'  but  black,  and  she  don't  go  no 
where  less'n  it's  somewheres  where  there's  sick 
ness.  It  makes  my  blood  run  cold  to  think  about 
that  poor  creetur.  Trouble  hits  some  folks  and 
glances  off,  and  it  hits  some  and  thar  it  sticks. 
I  tell  you  what,  them  that  it  gives  the  go-by 
ought  to  be  monst'ous  proud." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  many  interesting 
experiences  for  Helen  and  her  aunt.  They 
managed  to  find  considerable  comfort  in  Mrs. 
Haley's  genial  gossip.  It  amused  and  instructed 


254 

them,  and,  at  the  same  time,  gave  them  a  stand 
ard,  half-serious,  half-comical,  by  which  to 
measure  their  own  experiences  in  what  seemed 
to  them  a  very  quaint  neighborhood.  They 
managed,  in  the  course  of  a  very  few  days,  to 
make  themselves  thoroughly  at  home  in  their 
new  surroundings;  and,  while  they  missed  much 
that  tradition  and  literature  had  told  them  they 
would  find,  they  found  much  to  excite  their  curi 
osity  and  attract  their  interest. 

One  morning,  an  old-fashioned  carriage, 
drawn  by  a  pair  of  heavy-limbed  horses,  lum 
bered  up  to  the  tavern  door.  Helen  watched  it 
with  some  degree  of  expectancy.  The  curtains 
and  upholstering  were  faded  and  worn,  and  the 
panels  were  dingy  with  age.  The  negro  driver 
was  old  and  obsequious.  He  jumped  from  his 
high  seat,  opened  the  door,  let  down  a  flight  of 
steps,  and  then  stood  with  his  hat  off,  the  No 
vember  sun  glistening  on  his  bald  head.  Two 
ladies  alighted.  One  was  old,  and  one  was 
young,  but  both  were  arrayed  in  deep  mourn 
ing.  The  old  lady  had  an  abundance  of  gray 
hair  that  was  combed  straight  back  from  her 


Azalia  255 

forehead,  and  her  features  gave  evidence  of 
great  decision  of  character.  The  young  lady 
had  large,  lustrous  eyes,  and  the  pallor  of  her 
face  was  in  strange  contrast  with  her  sombre 
drapery.  These  were  the  ladies  from  Waverly, 
as  the  Garwood  place  was  called;  and  Helen 
and  her  aunt  met  them  a  few  moments  later. 

"I  am  so  pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  the  old 
lady,  with  a  smile  that  made  her  face  beautiful. 
"And  this  is  Miss  Tewksbury.  Really,  I  have 
heard  my  son  speak  of  you  so  often  that  I  seem 
to  know  you.  This  is  my  daughter  Hallie.  She 
doesn't  go  out  often,  but  she  insisted  on  coming 
with  me  to-day." 

"I'm  very  glad  you  came,"  said  Helen,  sitting 
by  the  pale  young  woman  after  the  greetings 
were  over. 

"I  think  you  are  lovely,"  said  Hallie,  with  the 
tone  of  one  who  is  settling  a  question  that  had 
previously  been  debated.  Her  clear  eyes  from 
which  innocence,  unconquered  and  undimmed 
by  trouble,  shone  forth,  fastened  themselves  on 
Helen's  face.  The  admiration  they  expressed 
was  unqualified  and  unadulterated.  It  was  the 


256  Free  Joe 

admiration  of  a  child.  But  the  eyes  were  not 
those  of  a  child:  they  were  such  as  Helen  had 
seen  in  old  paintings,  and  the  pathos  that  seemed 
part  of  their  beauty  belonged  definitely  to  the 
past. 

"I  lovely?"  exclaimed  Helen  in  astonishment, 
blushing  a  little.  "I  have  never  been  accused  of 
such  a  thing  before." 

"You  have  such  a  beautiful  complexion," 
Hallie  went  on  placidly,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on 
Helen's  face.  "I  had  heard — some  one  had  told 
me — that  you  were  an  invalid.  I  was  so  sorry." 
The  beautiful  eyes  drooped,  and  Hallie  sighed 
gently. 

"My  invalidism  is  a  myth,"  Helen  replied, 
somewhat  puzzled  to  account  for  the  impres 
sion  the  pale  young  woman  made  on  her.  "It  is 
the  invention  of  my  aunt  and  our  family  phys 
ician.  They  have  a  theory  that  my  lungs  are 
affected,  and  that  the  air  of  the  pine-woods  will 
do  me  good." 

"Oh,  I  hope  and  trust  it  will,"  exclaimed  Hal- 
lie,  with  an  earnestness  that  Helen  could  trace 
to  no  reasonable  basis  but  affectation.  "Oh,  I 


Azalia  257 

do  hope  it  will!  You  are  so  young — so  full  of 
life." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Helen,  with  mock  grav 
ity,  "I  am  older  than  you  are — ever  so  much 
older." 

The  lustrous  eyes  closed,  and  for  a  moment 
the  long  silken  lashes  rested  against  the  pale 
cheek.  Then  the  eyes  opened,  and  gazed  at 
Helen  appealingly. 

"Oh,  impossible!  How  could  that  be?  I  was 
sixteen  in  1862." 

"Then,"  said  Helen,  "you  are  twenty-seven, 
and  I  am  twenty-five." 

"I  knew  it — I  felt  it!"  exclaimed  Hallie,  with 
pensive  animation. 

Helen  was  amused  and  somewhat  interested. 
She  admired  the  peculiar  beauty  of  Hallie;  but 
the  efforts  of  the  latter  to  repress  her  feelings,  to 
reach,  as  it  were,  the  results  of  self-effacement, 
were  not  at  all  pleasing  to  the  Boston  girl. 

Mrs.  Garwood  and  Miss  Tewksbury  found 
themselves  on  good  terms  at  once.  A  course  of 
novel  reading,  seasoned  with  reflection,  had  led 
Miss  Tewksbury  to  believe  that  Southern  ladies 


258  Free  Joe 

of  the  first  families  possessed  in  a  large  degree 
the  Oriental  faculty  of  laziness.  She  had  pic 
tured  them  in  her  mind  as  languid  creatures, 
with  a  retinue  of  servants  to  carry  their  smelling- 
salts,  and  to  stir  the  tropical  air  with  palm-leaf 
fans.  Miss  Tewksbury  was  pleased  rather  than 
disappointed  to  find  that  Mrs.  Garwood  did  not 
realize  her  idea  of  a  Southern  woman.  The 
large,  lumbering  carriage  was  something,  and 
the  antiquated  driver  threatened  to  lead  the 
mind  in  a  somewhat  romantic  direction;  but 
both  were  shabby  enough  to  be  regarded  as  relics 
and  reminders  rather  than  as  active  possibilities. 

Mrs.  Garwood  was  bright  and  cordial,  and  the 
air  of  refinement  about  her  was  pronounced  and 
unmistakable.  Miss  Tewksbury  told  her  that 
Dr.  Buxton  had  recommended  Azalia  as  a  sani 
tarium. 

"Ephraim  Buxton!"  exclaimed  Mrs. Garwood. 
"Why,  you  don't  tell  me  that  Ephraim  Buxton 
is  practising  medicine  in  Boston?  And  do  you 
really  know  him?  Why,  Ephraim  Buxton  was 
my  first  sweetheart!" 

Mrs.  Garwood's  laugh  was  pleasant  to  hear, 


Azalia  259 

and  her  blushes  were  worth  looking  at  as 
she  referred  to  Dr.  Buxton.  Miss  Tewksbury 
laughed  sympathetically  but  primly. 

"Itwas  quite  romantic,"  Mrs.  Garwood  went  on, 
in  a  half-humorous,  half-confidential  tone.  "Eph- 
raim  was  the  school  teacher  here,  and  I  was  his 
eldest  scholar.  He  was  young,  green,  and  awk 
ward,  but  the  best-hearted,  most  generous  mor 
tal  I  ever  saw.  I  made  quite  a  hero  of  him." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  in  her  matter- 
of-fact  way,  "I  have  never  seen  anything  very 
heroic  about  Dr.  Buxton.  He  comes  and  goes, 
and  prescribes  his  pills,  like  all  other  doctors." 

"Ah,  that  was  forty  years  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Gar- 
wood,  laughing.  "A  hero  can  become  very  com 
monplace  in  forty  years.  Dr.  Buxton  must  be  a 
dear,  good  man.  Is  he  married?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury.  "He  has  been 
wise  in  his  day  and  generation." 

"What  a  pity!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "He 
would  have  made  some  woman  happy." 

Mrs.  Garwood  asked  many  questions  concern 
ing  the  physician  who  had  once  taught  school  at 
Azalia;  and  the  conversation  of  the  two  ladies 


260  Free  Joe 

finally  took  a  range  that  covered  all  New  Eng 
land,  and,  finally,  the  South.  Each  was  surprised 
at  the  remarkable  ignorance  of  the  other;  but 
their  ignorance  covered  different  fields,  so  that 
they  had  merely  to  exchange  facts  and  informa 
tion  and  experiences  in  order  to  entertain  each 
other.  They  touched  on  the  war  delicately, 
though  MissTewksbury  had  never  cultivated  the 
art  of  reserve  to  any  great  extent.  At  the  same 
time  there  was  no  lack  of  frankness  on  either  side. 

"My  son  has  been  telling  me  of  the  little  con 
troversies  he  had  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Garwood. 
"He  says  you  fairly  bristle  with  arguments." 

"The  general  never  heard  half  my  argu 
ments,"  replied  Miss  Tewksbury.  "He  never 
gave  me  an  opportunity  to  use  them." 

"My  son  is  very  conservative,"  said  Mrs.  Gar- 
wood,  with  a  smile  in  which  could  be  detected 
a  mother's  fond  pride.  "After  the  war  he  felt  the 
responsibility  of  his  position.  A  great  many  peo 
ple  looked  up  to  him.  For  a  long  time  after  the 
surrender  we  had  no  law  and  no  courts,  and  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  confusion.  Oh,  you  can't  im 
agine  !  Every  man  was  his  own  judge  and  jury." 


Azalia  261 

"So  I've  beeatold,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury. 

"Of  course  you  know  something  about  it,  but 
you  can  have  no  conception  of  the  real  condi 
tion  of  things.  It  was  a  tremendous  upheaval 
coming  after  a  terrible  struggle,  and  my  son  felt 
that  some  one  should  set  an  example  of  pru 
dence.  His  theory  was,  and  is,  that  everything 
was  for  the  best,  and  that  our  people  should 
make  the  best  of  it.  I  think  he  was  right,"  Mrs. 
Garwood  added  with  a  sigh,  "but  I  don't  know." 

"Why,  unquestionably!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Tewksbury.  She  was  going  on  to  say  more; 
she  felt  that  here  was  an  opening  for  some  of  her 
arguments:  but  her  eyes  fell  on  Hallie,  whose 
pale  face  and  sombre  garb  formed  a  curious  con 
trast  to  the  fresh-looking  young  woman  who  sat 
beside  her.  Miss  Tewksbury  paused. 

"Did  you  lose  any  one  in  the  war?"  Hallie 
was  asking  softly. 

"I  lost  a  darling  brother,"  Helen  replied. 

Hallie  laid  her  hand  on  Helen's  arm,  a  beau 
tiful  white  hand.  The  movement  was  at  once  a 
gesture  and  a  caress. 

"Dear  heart!"  she  said,  "you  must  come  and 


262  Free  Joe 

see  me.  We  will  talk  together.  I  love  those 
who  are  sorrowful." 

MissTewksbury  postponed  her  arguments,  and 
after  some  conversation  they  took  their  leave. 

"Aunt  Harriet,"  said  Helen,  when  they  were 
alone,  "what  do  you  make  of  these  people?  Did 
you  see  that  poor  girl,  and  hear  her  talk?  She 
chilled  me  and  entranced  me." 

"Don't  talk  so,  child,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury; 
"they  are  very  good  people,  much  better  people 
than  I  thought  we  should  find  in  this  wilderness. 
It  is  a  comfort  to  talk  to  them." 

"But  that  poor  girl,"  said  Helen.  "She  is  a  mys 
tery  to  me.  She  reminds  me  of  a  figure  I  have 
seen  on  the  stage,  or  read  of  in  some  old  book." 

When  Azalia  heard  that  the  Northern  ladies 
had  been  called  on  by  the  mistress  of  Waverly, 
that  portion  of  its  inhabitants  which  was  in  the 
habit  of  keeping  up  the  forms  of  sociability  made 
haste  to  follow  her  example,  so  that  Helen  and 
her  aunt  were  made  to  feel  at  home  in  spite  of 
themselves.  General  Garwood  was  a  frequent 
caller,  ostensibly  to  engage  in  sectional  contro 
versies  with  Miss  Tewksbury,  which  he  seemed 


Azalia  263 

to  enjoy  keenly;  but  Mrs.  Haley  observed  that 
when  Helen  was  not  visible  the  general  rarely 
prolonged  his  discussions  with  her  aunt. 

The  Rev.  Arthur  Hill  also  called  with  some 
degree  of  regularity;  and  it  was  finally  under 
stood  that  Helen  would,  at  least  temporarily, 
take  the  place  of  Miss  Lou  Hornsby  as  organ 
ist  of  the  little  Episcopal  church  in  the  Tacky 
settlement,  as  soon  as  Mr.  Goolsby,  the  fat  and 
enterprising  book-agent,  had  led  the  fair  Louisa 
to  the  altar.  This  wedding  occurred  in  due  time, 
and  was  quite  an  event  in  Azalia's  social  his 
tory.  Goolsby  was  stout,  but  gallant;  and  Miss 
Hornsby  made  a  tolerably  handsome  bride,  not 
withstanding  a  tendency  to  giggle  when  her  de 
portment  should  have  been  dignified.  Helen 
furnished  the  music,  General  Garwood  gave  the 
bride  away,  and  the  little  preacher  read  the 
ceremony  quite  impressively;  so  that  with  the 
flowers  and  other  favors,  and  the  subsequent 
dinner — which  Mrs.  Haley  called  an  "infair"- 
the  occasion  was  a  very  happy  and  successful  one. 

Among  those  who  were  present,  not  as  invited 
guests,  but  by  virtue  of  their  unimportance,  were 


264  Free  'Joe 

Mrs.  Stucky  and  her  son  Bud.  They  were  fol 
lowed  and  flanked  by  quite  a  number  of  their 
neighbors,  who  gazed  on  the  festal  scene  with 
an  impressive  curiosity  that  can  not  be  described. 
Pale-faced,  wide-eyed,  statuesque,  their  presence, 
interpreted  by  a  vivid  imagination,  might  have 
been  regarded  as  an  omen  of  impending  misfor 
tune.  They  stood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  wed 
ding  company,  gazing  on  the  scene  apparently 
without  an  emotion  of  sympathy  or  interest. 
They  were  there,  it  seemed,  to  see  what  new 
caper  the  townspeople  had  concluded  to  cut,  to 
regard  it  solemnly,  and  to  regret  it  with  grave 
faces  when  the  lights  were  out  and  the  fantastic 
procession  had  drifted  away  to  the  village. 

The  organ  in  the  little  church"  was  a  fine  in 
strument,  though  a  small  one.  It  had  belonged 
to  the  little  preacher's  wife,  and  he  had  given  it 
to  the  church.  To  his  mind,  the  fact  that  she 
had  used  it  sanctified  it,  and  he  had  placed  it  in 
the  church  as  a  part  of  the  sacrifice  he  felt  called 
on  to  make  in  behalf  of  his  religion.  Helen 
played  it  with  uncommon  skill — a  skill  born  of 
a  passionate  appreciation  of  music  in  its  highest 


Azalia  265 

forms.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Hill  listened  like  one  en 
tranced,  but  Helen  played  unconscious  of  his  ad 
miration.  On  the  outskirts  of  the  congregation 
she  observed  Mrs.  Stucky,  and  by  her  side  a 
young  man  with  long,  sandy  hair,  evidently  un 
combed,  and  a  thin  stubble  of  beard.  Helen 
saw  this  young  man  pull  Mrs.  Stucky  by  the 
sleeve,  and  direct  her  attention  to  the  organ. 
Instead  of  looking  in  Helen's  direction,  Mrs. 
Stucky  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  face  of  the  young 
man  and  held  them  there ;  but  he  continued  to 
stare  at  the  organist.  It  was  a  gaze  at  once 
mournful  and  appealing — not  different  in  that 
respect  from  the  gaze  of  any  of  the  queer  peo 
ple  around  him,  but  it  affected  Miss  Eustis 
strangely.  To  her  quick  imagination,  it  sug 
gested  loneliness,  'despair,  that  was  the  more 
tragic  because  o'f  its  isolation.  It  seemed  to 
embody  the  mute,  pent-up  distress  of  whole  gen 
erations.  Somehow  Helen  felt  herself  to  be  play 
ing  for  the  benefit  of  this  poor  creature.  The 
echoes  of  the  wedding-march  sounded  grandly 
in  the  little  church,  then  came  a  softly  played 
interlude,  and  finally  a  solemn  benediction,  in 

VOL.  3  12 


266 

which  solicitude  seemed  to  be  giving  happiness 
a  sweet  warning.  As  the  congregation  filed  out 
of  the  church,  the  organ  sent  its  sonorous  echoes 
after  the  departing  crowd  —  echoes  that  were 
taken  up  by  the  whispering  and  sighing  pines, 
and  borne  far  into  the  night.  Mrs.  Stucky  did 
not  go  until  after  the  lights  were  out;  and  then 
she  took  her  son  by  the  hand,  and  the  two  went 
to  their  lonely  cabin  not  far  away.  They  went 
in,  and  soon  had  a  fire  kindled  on  the  hearth. 
No  word  had  passed  between  them;  but  after  a 
while,  when  Mrs.  Stucky  had  taken  a  seat  in  the 
corner,  and  lit  her  pipe,  she  exclaimed: 

"Lordy!  what  a  great  big  gob  of  a  man!  I 
dunner  what  on  the  face  er  the  yeth  Lou  Hornsby 
could  'a'  been  a-dreamin'  about.  From  the  way 
she's  been  a-gigglin'  aroun'  I'd  'a'  thought  she'd 
'a'  sot  her  cap  fer  the  giner'l." 

"I  say  it!"  said  Bud,  laughing  loudly.  "What- 
ter  you  reckon  the  giner'l  'ud  'a'  been  a-doin'  all 
that  time?  I  see  'er  now,  a-gigglin'  an'  a-settin' 
'er  cap  fer  the  giner'l.  Lordy,  yes!" 

"What's  the  matter  betwixt  you  an'  Lou?" 
asked  Mrs.  Stucky  grimly.  "  'Taint  been  no 


Azalia  267 

time  senst  you  wuz  a-totin'  water  fer  her  ma,  an' 
a-hangin'  aroun'  whilst  she  played  the  music  in 
the  church  thar."  Bud  continued  to  laugh. 
"But,  Lordy!"  his  mother  went  on,  "I  reckon 
you'll  be  a-totin'  water  an'  a-runnin'  er'n's  fer 
thish  yer  Yankee  gal  what  played  on  the  orgin 
up  thar  jess  now." 

"Well,  they  hain't  no  tellin',"  said  Bud,  rub 
bing  his  thin  beard  reflectively.  "She's  mighty 
spry  'long  er  that  orgin,  an'  she's  got  mighty 
purty  han's  an'  nimble  fingers,  an'  ef  she  'uz  ter 
let  down  her  ha'r,  she'd  be  plum  ready  ter  fly." 

"She  walked  home  wi'  the  giner'l,"  said  Mrs. 
Stucky. 

"I  seed  'er,"  said  Bud.  "He  sent  some  yuther 
gals  home  in  the  carriage,  an'  him  an'  the  Yankee 
gal  went  a-walkin'  down  the  road.  He  humped 
up  his  arm  this  away,  an'  the  gal  tuck  it,  an'  off 
they  put."  Bud  seemed  to  enjoy  the  recollection 
of  the  scene;  for  he  repeated,  after  waiting  a 
while  to  see  what  his  mother  would  have  to  say: 
"Yes,  siree!  she  tuck  it,  an'  off  they  put." 

Mrs.  Stucky  looked  at  this  grown  man,  her 
son,  for  a  long  time  without  saying  anything,  and 


268  Free  Joe 

finally  remarked  with  something  very  like  a 
sigh:  "Well,  honey,  you  neenter  begrudge  'em 
the'r  walk.  Hit's  a  long  ways  through  the  san'." 

"Lordy,  yes'n!"  exclaimed  Bud  with  some 
thing  like  a  smile;  "it's  a  mighty  long  ways,  but 
the  giner'l  had  the  gal  wi'  'im.  He  jess  humped 
up  his  arm,  an'  she  tuck  it,  an'  off  they  put." 

It  was  even  so.  General  Garwood  and  Helen 
walked  home  from  the  little  church.  The  road 
was  a  long  but  a  shining  one.  In  the  moonlight 
the  sand  shone  white,  save  where  little  drifts  and 
eddies  of  pine-needles  had  gathered.  But  these 
were  no  obstruction  to  the  perspective,  for  the 
road  was  an  avenue,  broad  and  level,  that  lost 
itself  in  the  distance  only  because  the  com 
panionable  pines,  interlacing  their  boughs,  con 
trived  to  present  a  background  both  vague  and 
sombre — a  background  that  receded  on  approach, 
and  finally  developed  into  the  village  of  Azalia 
and  its  suburbs.  Along  this  level  and  shining 
highway  Helen  and  General  Garwood  went. 
The  carriages  that  preceded  them,  and  the  peo 
ple  who  walked  with  them  or  followed,  gave  a 
sort  of  processional  pomp  and  movement  to  the 


Azalia  269 

gallant  Goolsby's  wedding — so  much  so  that  if 
he  could  have  witnessed  it,  his  manly  bosom 
would  have  swelled  with  genuine  pride. 

"The  music  you  gave  us  was  indeed  a  treat," 
said  the  general. 

"It  was  perhaps  more  than  you  bargained 
for,"  Helen  replied.  "I  suppose  everybody 
thought  I  was  trying  to  make  a  display,  but  I 
quite  forgot  myself.  I  was  watching  its  effect 
on  one  of  the  poor  creatures  near  the  door — do 
you  call  them  Tackies?" 

"Yes,  Tackies.  Well,  we  are  all  obliged  to 
the  poor  creature — man  or  woman.  No  doubt 
the  fortunate  person  was  Bud  Stucky.  I  saw  him 
standing  near  his  mother.  Bud  is  famous  for  his 
love  of  music.  When  the  organ  is  to  be  played, 
Bud  is  always  at  the  church;  and  sometimes  he 
goes  toWaverly,  and  makes  Hallie  play  the  piano 
for  him  while  he  sits  on  the  floor  of  the  veranda 
near  the  window.  Bud  is  quite  a  character." 

"I  am  so  sorry  for  him,"  said  Helen  gently. 

"I  doubt  if  he  is  to  be  greatly  pitied,"  said  the 
general.  "Indeed,  as  the  music  was  for  him,  and 
not  for  us,  I  think  he  is  to  be  greatly  envied." 


270  Free  Joe 

"I  see  now,"  said  Helen  laughing,  "that  I 
should  have  restrained  myself." 

"The  suggestion  is  almost  selfish,"  said  the 
general  gallantly. 

"Well,  your  nights  here  are  finer  than  music," 
Helen  remarked,  fleeing  to  an  impersonal  theme. 
"To  walk  in  the  moonlight,  without  wraps  and 
with  no  sense  of  discomfort,  in  the  middle  of 
December,  is  a  wonderful  experience  to  me. 
Last  night  I  heard  a  mocking-bird  singing;  and 
my  aunt  has  been  asking  Mrs.  Haley  if  water 
melons  are  ripe." 

"The  mocking-birds  at  Waverly,"  said  the 
general,  "have  become  something  of  a  nuisance 
under  Hallie's  management.  There  is  a  great 
flock  of  them  on  the  place,  and  in  the  summer 
they  sing  all  night.  It  is  not  a  very  pleasant 
experience  to  have  one  whistling  at  your  window 
the  whole  night  through." 

"Mrs.  Haley,"  remarked  Helen,  "says  that 
there  are  more  mocking-birds  now  than  there 
were  before  the  war,  and  that  they  sing  louder 
and  more  frequently." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  the  general  assented. 


Azalia  27  r 

"Mrs.  Haley  is  quite  an  authority  on  such  mat 
ters.  Everybody  quotes  her  opinions." 

"I  took  the  liberty  the  other  day,"  Helen  went 
on,  "of  asking  her  about  the  Ku  Klux." 

"And,  pray,  what  did  she  say?"  the  general 
asked  with  some  degree  of  curiosity. 

"Why,  she  said  they  were  like  the  shower  of 
stars — she  had  'heard  tell'  of  them,  but  she  had 
never  seen  them.  'But,'  said  I,  'you  have  no 
doubt  that  the  shower  really  occurred!' ' 

"Her  illustration  was  somewhat  unfortunate," 
the  general  remarked. 

"Oh,  by  no  means,"  Helen  replied.  "She 
looked  at  me  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  and  said 
she  had  heard  that  it  wasn't  the  stars  that  fell, 
after  all." 

Talking  thus,  with  long  intervals  of  silence, 
the  two  walked  along  the  gleaming  road  until 
they  reached  the  tavern,  where  Miss  Eustis 
found  her  aunt  and  Mrs.  Haley  waiting  on  the 
broad  veranda. 

"I  don't  think  he  is  very  polite,"  said  Helen, 
after  her  escort  had  bade  them  good  night,  and 
was  out  of  hearing.  "He  offered  me  his  arm, 


272  Free  Joe 

and  then,  after  we  had  walked  a  little  way,  sug 
gested  that  we  could  get  along  more  comfortably 
by  marching  Indian  file." 

Mrs.  Haley  laughed  loudly.  "Why,  bless 
your  innocent  heart,  honey!  that  ain't  nothin'. 
The  sand's  too  deep  in  the  road,  and  the  path's 
too  narrer  for  folks  to  be  a-gwine  along  yarm-in- 
arm.  Lord!  don't  talk  about  perliteness.  That 
man's  manners  is  somethin'  better'n  perliteness." 

"Well,"  said  Helen's  aunt,  "I  can't  imagine 
why  he  should  want  to  make  you  trudge  through 
the  sand  in  that  style." 

"It  is  probably  an  output  of  the  climate,"  said 
Helen. 

"Well,  now,  honey,"  remarked  Mrs.  Haley, 
"if  he  ast  you  to  walk  wi'  'im,  he  had  his  reasons. 
I've  got  my  own  idee,"  she  added  with  a  chuckle. 
"I  know  one  thing — I  know  he's  monstrous  fond 
of  some  of  the  Northron  folks.  Ain't  you  never 
hearn,  how,  endurin'  of  the  war,  they  fotch  home 
a  Yankee  soldier  along  wi'  Hallie's  husband,  an' 
buried  'em  side  by  side?  They  tell  me  that  Hal- 
lie's  husband  an'  the  Yankee  was  mighty  nigh 
the  same  age,  an'  had  a  sorter  favor.  If  that's 


Azalia  273 

so,"  said  Mrs.  Hayley,  with  emphasis,  "then 
two  mighty  likely  chaps  was  knocked  over  on 
account  of  the  everlastin'  nigger." 

All  this  was  very  interesting  to  Helen  and  her 
aunt,  and  they  were  anxious  to  learn  all  the  par 
ticulars  in  regard  to  the  young  Federal  soldier 
who  had  found  burial  at  Waverly. 

"What  his  name  was,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  "I'll 
never  tell  you.  Old  Prince,  the  carriage-driver, 
can  tell  you  lots  more'n  I  can.  He  foun'  'em  on 
the  groun',  an'  he  fotch  'em  home.  Prince  use 
to  be  a  mighty  good  nigger  before  freedom  come 
out,  but  now  he  ain't  much  better'n  the  balance 
of  'em.  You  all  'ill  see  him  when  you  go  over 
thar,  bekaze  he's  in  an'  out  of  the  house  constant. 
He'll  tell  you  all  about  it  if  you're  mighty  per- 
lite.  Folks  is  got  so  they  has  to  be  mighty  per- 
lite  to  niggers  sence  the  war.  Yit  I'll  not  deny 
that  it's  easy  to  be  perlite  to  old  Uncle  Prince, 
bekaze  he's  mighty  perlite  hisself.  He's  what  I 
call  a  high-bred  nigger."  Mrs.  Haley  said  this 
with  an  air  of  pride,  as  if  she  were  in  some  meas 
ure  responsible  forUncle  Prince's  good  breeding. 


274  Free  Joe 


IT  came  to  pass  that  Helen  Eustis  and  her 
aunt  lost  the  sense  of  loneliness  which  they  had 
found  so  oppressive  during  the  first  weeks  of 
their  visit.  In  the  people  about  them  they  found 
a  never-failing  fund  of  entertainment.  They 
found  in  the  climate,  too,  a  source  of  health  and 
strength.  The  resinous  odor  of  the  pines  was 
always  in  their  nostrils;  the  far,  faint  under 
tones  of  music  the  winds  made  in  the  trees  were 
always  in  their  ears.  The  provinciality  of  the 
people,  which  some  of  the  political  correspon 
dents  describe  as  distressing,  was  so  genuinely 
American  in  all  its  forms  and  manifestations 
that  these  Boston  women  were  enabled  to  draw 
from  it,  now  and  then,  a  whiff  of  New  England 
air.  They  recognized  characteristics  that  made 
them  feel  thoroughly  at  home.  Perhaps,  so  far 
as  Helen  was  concerned,  there  were  other  rea 
sons  that  reconciled  her  to  her  surroundings. 
At  any  rate,  she  was  reconciled.  More  than 
this,  she  was  happy.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  and 


Azalia  275 

the  roses  of  health  bloomed  on  her  cheeks.  All 
her  movements  were  tributes  to  the  buoyancy 
and  energy  of  her  nature.  The  little  rector 
found  out  what  this  energy  amounted  to,  when, 
on  one  occasion,  he  proposed  to  accompany  her 
on  one  of  her  walks.  It  was  a  five-mile  excur 
sion;  and  he  returned,  as  Mrs.  Haley  expressed 
it,  "a  used-up  man." 

One  morning,  just  before  Christmas,  the 
Waverly  carriage,  driven  in  great  state  by  Uncle 
Prince,  drew  up  in  front  of  the  tavern;  and  in  a 
few  moments  Helen  and  her  aunt  were  given  to 
understand  that  they  had  been  sent  for,  in  fur 
therance  of  an  invitation  they  had  accepted,  to 
spend  the  holidays  at  Waverly. 

"Ole  Miss  would  'a'  come,"  said  Uncle 
Prince,  with  a  hospitable  chuckle,  "but  she 
sorter  ailin';  en  Miss  Hallie,  she  dat  busy  dat 
she  ain't  skacely  got  time  fer  ter  tu'n  'roun'; 
so  dey  tuck'n  sort  atter  you,  ma'am,  des  like 
you  wuz  home  folks." 

The  preparations  of  the  ladies  had  already 
been  made,  and  it  was  not  long  before  they  were 
swinging  along  under  the  green  pines  in  the  old- 


276  Free  Joe 

fashioned  vehicle.  Nor  was  it  long  before  they 
passed  from  the  pine  forests,  and  entered  the 
grove  of  live-oaks  that  shaded  the  walks  and 
drives  of  Waverly.  The  house  itself  was  a  some 
what  imposing  structure,  with  a  double  veranda 
in  front,  supported  by  immense  pillars,  and  sur 
rounded  on  all  sides  by  magnificent  trees.  Here, 
as  Helen  and  her  aunt  had  heard  on  all  sides,  a 
princely  establishment  had  existed  in  the  old 
time  before  the  war — an  establishment  noted  for 
its  lavish  hospitality.  Here  visitors  used  to 
come  in  their  carriages  from  all  parts  of  Geor 
gia,  from  South  Carolina,  and  even  from  Vir 
ginia — some  of  them  remaining  for  weeks  at  a 
time,  and  giving  to  the  otherwise  dull  neighbor 
hood  long  seasons  of  riotous  festivity,  which 
were  at  once  characteristic  and  picturesque. 
tThe  old  days  had  gone  to  come  no  more,  but 
there  was  something  in  the  atmosphere  that 
seemed  to  recall  them.  The  stately  yet  simple 
architecture  of  the  house,  the  trees  with  their 
rugged  and  enormous  trunks,  the  vast  extent  of 
the  grounds — everything,  indeed,  that  came 
under  the  eye — seemed  to  suggest  the  past.  A 


Azalia  277 

blackened  and  broken  statue  lay  prone  upon  the 
ground  hard  by  the  weather-beaten  basin  of  a 
fountain  long  since  dry.  Two  tall  granite  col 
umns,  that  once  guarded  an  immense  gateway, 
supported  the  fragmentary  skeletons  of  two  co 
lossal  lamps.  There  was  a  suggestion  not  only 
of  the  old  days  before  the  war,  but  of  antiquity 
— a  suggestion  that  was  intensified  by  the  great 
hall,  the  high  ceilings,  the  wide  fireplaces,  and 
the  high  mantels  of  the  house  itself.  These 
things  somehow  gave  a  weird  aspect  to  Waverly 
in  the  eyes  of  the  visitors;  but  this  feeling  was 
largely  atoned  for  by  the  air  of  tranquillity  that 
brooded  over  the  place,  and  it  was  utterly  dis 
persed  by  the  heartiness  with  which  they  were 
welcomed. 

"Here  we  is  at  home,  ma'am,"  exclaimed 
Uncle  Prince,  opening  the  carriage-door,  and 
bowing  low;  "en  yon'  come  ole  Miss  en  Misi 
Hallie." 

The  impression  which  Helen  and  her  aunt 
received,  and  one  which  they  never  succeeded 
in  shaking  off  during  their  visit,  was  that  they 
were  regarded  as  members  of  the  family  who 


278  Free  Joe 

had  been  away  for  a  period,  but  who  had  now 
come  home  to  stay.  Just  how  these  gentle  hosts 
managed  to  impart  this  impression,  Helen  and 
Miss  Tewksbury  would  have  found  it  hard  to 
explain;  but  they  discovered  that  the  art  of  en 
tertaining  was  not  a  lost  art  even  in  the  piny 
woods.  Every  incident,  and  even  accidents,  con 
tributed  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  guests.  Even 
the  weather  appeared  to  exert  itself  to  please. 
Christmas  morning  was  ushered  in  with  a  sharp 
little  flurry  of  snow.  The  scene  was  a  very 
pretty  one,  as  the  soft  white  flakes,  some  of  them 
as  large  as  a  canary's  wing,  fell  athwart  the 
green  foliage  of  the  live-oaks  and  the  magnolias. 

"This  is  my  hour!"  exclaimed  Helen  enthu 
siastically. 

"We  enjoy  it  with  you,"  said  Hallie  simply. 

During  the  afternoon  the  clouds  melted  away, 
the  sun  came  out,  and  the  purple  haze  of  Indian 
summer  took  possession  of  air  and  sky.  In  an 
hour  the  weather  passed  from  the  crisp  and 
sparkling  freshness  of  winter,  to  the  wistful 
melancholy  beauty  of  autumn. 

"This,"  said  Hallie  gently,  "is,  my  hour."    She 


Azalia  279 

was  standing  on  the  broad  veranda  with  Helen. 
For  reply,  the  latter  placed  her  arm  around  the 
Southern  girl;  and  they  stood  thus  for  a  long 
time,  their  thoughts  riming  to  the  plaintive  air 
of  a  negro  melody  that  found  its  way  across  the 
fields  and  through  the  woods. 

Christmas  at  Waverly,  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  the  negroes  were  free,  was  not  greatly 
different  from  Christmas  on  the  Southern  plan 
tations  before  the  war.  Few  of  the  negroes  who 
had  been  slaves  had  left  the  place,  and  those 
that  remained  knew  how  a  Christmas  ought 
to  be  celebrated.  They  sang  the  old-time  songs, 
danced  the  old-time  dances,  and  played  the  old- 
time  plays. 

All  this  was  deeply  interesting  to  the  gentle 
women  from  Boston;  but  there  was  one  incident 
that  left  a  lasting  impression  on  both,  and  prob 
ably  had  its  effect  in  changing  the  future  of  one 
of  them.  It  occurred  one  evening  when  they 
were  all  grouped  around  the  fire  in  the  draw 
ing-room.  The  weather  had  grown  somewhat 
colder  than  usual,  and  big  hickory  logs  were 
piled  in  the  wide  fireplace.  At  the  suggestion 


280  Free  Joe 

of  Hallie  the  lights  had  been  put  out,  and  they 
sat  in  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  firelight.  The 
effect  was  picturesque  indeed.  The  furniture 
and  the  polished  wainscoting  glinted  and  shone, 
and  the  shadows  of  the  big  brass  andirons  were 
thrown  upon  the  ceiling,  where  they  performed 
a  witch's  dance,  the  intricacy  of  which  was 
amazing  to  behold. 

It  was  an  interesting  group,  representing  the 
types  of  much  that  is  best  in  the  civilization  of 
the  two  regions.  Their  talk  covered  a  great 
variety  of  subjects,  but  finally  drifted  into  remi 
niscences  of  the  war — reminiscences  of  its  inci 
dents  rather  than  its  passions. 

"I  have  been  told,"  said  Miss  Eustis,  "that  a 
dead  Union  soldier  was  brought  here  during  the 
war,  and  buried.  Was  his  name  ever  known?" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  General  Garwood 
gazed  steadily  info  the  fire.  His  mother  sighed 
gently.  Hallie,  who  had  been  resting  her  head 
against  Helen's  shoulder,  rose  from  her  chair, 
and  glided  from  the  room  as  swiftly  as  a  ghost. 

"Perhaps  I  have  made  a  mistake,"  said  Helen 
in  dismay.  "The  incident  was  so 'strange — " 


Azalia  281 

"No,  Miss  Eustis,  you  have  made  no  mistake," 
said  General  Garwood,  smiling  a  little  sadly. 
"One  moment — "  He  paused  as  if  listening  for 
something.  Presently  the  faint  sound  of  music 
was  heard.  It  stole  softly  from  the  dark  parlor 
into  the  warm  firelight  as  if  it  came  from  far 
away. 

"One  moment,"  said  General  Garwood.  "It 
is  Hallie  at  the  piano." 

The  music,  without  increasing  in  volume,  sud 
denly  gathered  coherency,  and  there  fell  on  the 
ears  of  the  listening  group  the  notes  of  an  air 
so  plaintive  that  it  seemed  like  the  breaking  of 
a  heart.  It  was  as  soft  as  an  echo,  and  as  tender 
as  the  memories  of  love  and  youth. 

"We  have  to  be  very  particular  with  Hallie,n 
said  the  general,  by  way  of  explanation.  "The 
Union  soldier  in  our  burying-ground  is  inti 
mately  connected  with  her  bereavement  and 
ours.  Hers  is  the  one  poor  heart  that  keeps  the 
fires  of  grief  always  burning.  I  think  she  is 
willing  the  story  should  be  told." 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother,  "else  she  would  never 
go  to  the  piano." 


282  Free  Joe 

"I  feel  like  a  criminal,"  said  Helen.  "How 
can  I  apologize?" 

"It  is  we  who  ought  to  apologize  and  ex 
plain,"  replied  General  Garwood.  "You  shall 
hear  the  story,  and  then  neither  explanation  nor 
apology  will  be  necessary." 


VI 


A  SUMMONS  was  sent  for  Uncle  Prince,  and 
the  old  man  soon  made  his  appearance.  He 
stood  in  a  seriously  expectant  attitude. 

"Prince,"  said  General  Garwood,  "these 
ladies  are  from  the  North.  They  have  asked 
me  about  the  dead  Union  soldier  you  brought 
home  during  the  war.  I  want  you  to  tell  the 
whole  story." 

"Tell  'bout  de  what,  Marse  Peyton?"  Both 
astonishment  and  distress  were  depicted  on  the 
old  negro's  face  as  he  asked  the  question.  He 
seemed  to  be  sure  that  he  had  not  heard 
aright. 

"About  the  Union  soldier  you  brought  home 
with  your  young  master  from  Virginia." 


Azalia  283 

"Whar  Miss  Hallie,  Marse  Peyton?  Dat  her 
in  dar  wid  de  peanner?" 

"Yes,  she's  in  there." 

"I  'lowed  she  uz  some'r's,  kaze  I  know  'tain't 
gwine  never  do  fer  ter  git  dat  chile  riled  up 
'bout  dem  ole  times;  en  it'll  be  a  mighty  wonder 
ef  she  don't  ketch  col'  in  dar  whar  she  is." 

"No,"  said  General  Garwood;  "the  room  is 
warm.  There  has  been  a  fire  in  there  all  day." 

"Yasser,  I  know  I  builted  one  in  dar  dis 
mornin',  but  I  take  notice  dat  de  draffs  dese 
times  look  like  dey  come  bofe  ways." 

The  old  man  stood  near  the  tall  mantel,  fac 
ing  the  group.  There  was  nothing  servile  in  his 
attitude :  on  the  contrary,  his  manner,  when  ad 
dressing  the  gentleman  who  had  once  been  his 
master,  suggested  easy,  not  to  say  affectionate, 
familiarity.  The  firelight,  shining  on  his  face, 
revealed  a  countenance  at  once  rugged  and 
friendly.  It  was  a  face  in  which  humor  had 
many  a  tough  struggle  with  dignity.  In  looks 
and  tone,  in  word  and  gesture,  there  was  unmis 
takable  evidence  of  that  peculiar  form  of  urban 
ity  that  can  not  be  dissociated  from  gentility. 


284  Free  Joe 

These  things  were  more  apparent,  perhaps,  to 
Helen  and  her  aunt  than  to  those  who,  from 
long  association,  had  become  accustomed  to 
Uncle  Prince's  peculiarities. 

"Dem  times  ain't  never  got  clean  out'n  my 
min',"  said  the  old  negro,  "but  it  bin  so  long 
sence  I  runn'd  over  um,  dat  I  dunner  wharbouts 
ter  begin  skacely." 

"You  can  tell  it  all  in  your  own  way,"  said 
General  Garwood. 

"Yasser,  dat's  so,  but  I  fear'd  it's  a  mighty  po' 
way.  Bless  yo'  soul,  honey,"  Uncle  Prince  went 
on,  "dey  was  rough  times,  en  it  look  like  ter  me 
dat  ef  dey  wuz  ter  come  'roun'  ag'in  hit  'u'd 
take  a  mighty  rank  runner  fer  ter  ketch  one 
nigger  man  w'at  I'm  got  some  'quaintance  wid. 
Dey  wuz  rough  times,  but  dey  wa'n't  rough  'long 
at  fust.  Shoo!  no!  dey  wuz  dat  slick  dat  dey 
ease  we-all  right  down  'mongs'  de  wuss  kind  er 
tribbylation,  en  we  ain't  none  un  us  know  it  twel 
we  er  done  dar. 

"I  know  dis,"  the  old  man  continued,  address 
ing  himself  exclusively  to  Miss  Eustis  and  her 
aunt;  "I  knows  dat  we-all  wuz  a-gittin'  'long 


Azalia  285 

mighty  well,  w'en  one  day  Marse  Peyton  dar, 
he  tuck  'n'  jinded  wid  de  army; 'en  den  'twa'n't 
long  'fo'  word  come  dat  my  young  marster  w'at 
gwine  ter  college  in  Ferginny,  done  gone  en 
jinded  wid  urn.  I  ax  myse'f,  I  say,  w'at  de  name 
er  goodness  does  dey  want  wid  boy  like  dat? 
Hit's  de  Lord's  trufe,  ma'am,  dat  ar  chile  wa'n't 
mo'  dan  gwine  on  sixteen,  ef  he  wuz  dat,  en  I 
up'n'  ax  myse'f,  I  did,  w'at  does  de  war  want 
wid  baby  like  dat?  Min'  you,  ma'am,  I  ain't 
fin'  out  den  w'at  war  wuz — I  ain't  know  w'at  a 
great  big  maw  she  got." 

"My  son  Ethel,"  said  Mrs.  Garwood,  the  soft 
tone  of  her  voice  chiming  with  the  notes  of  the 
piano,  "was  attending  the  University  of  Virginia 
at  Charlottesville.  He  was  just  sixteen." 

"Yassum,"  said  Uncle  Prince,  rubbing  his 
hands  together  gently,  and  gazing  into  the  glow 
ing  embers,  as  if  searching  there  for  some  clue 
that  would  aid  him  in  recalling  the  past.  "Yas 
sum,  my  young  marster  wuz  des  gone  by  sixteen 
year,  kaze  'twa'n't  so  mighty  long  'fo'  dat,  dat 
we-all  sont  'im  a  great  big  box  er  fixin's  en 
doin's  fer  ter  git  dar  on  he's  birfday;  en  I  sot 


286  Free  Joe 

up  mighty  nigh  twel  day  tryin'  ter  make  some 
'lasses  candy  fer  ter  put  in  dar  wid  de  yuther 
doin's." 

Here  Uncle  Prince  smiled  broadly  at  the  fire. 

"Ef  dey  wuz  sumpin'  w'at  dat  chile  like,  hit 
wuz  'lasses  candy;  en  I  say  ter  my  ole  'oman,  I 
did:  '  'Mandy  Jane,  I'll  make  de  candy,  en  den 
w'en  she  good  en  done,  I'll  up  en  holler  fer  you, 
en  den  you  kin  pull  it.'  Yassum,  I  said  dem  ve'y 
words.  So  de  ole  'oman,  she  lay  down  'cross  de 
baid,  en  I  sot  up  dar  en  b'iled  de  'lasses.  De 
'lasses  'u'd  blubber  en  I'd  nod,  en  I'd  nod  en  de 
'lasses  'u'd  blubber,  en  fus  news  I  know  de  'lasses 
'u'd  done  be  scorched.  Well,  ma'am,  I  tuck  V 
burnt  up  mighty  nigh  fo'  gallons  er  'lasses  on  de 
account  er  my  noddin',  en  bimeby  w'en  de  ole 
'oman  wake  up,  she  'low  dey  wa'n't  no  excusion 
fer  it;  en  sho  miff  dey  wa'n't,  kaze  w'at  make  I 
nod  dat  away? 

"But  dat  candy  wuz  candy,  mon,  w'en  she  did 
come,  en  den  de  ole  'oman  she  tuck  'n'  pull  it 
twel  it  git  'mos'  right  white ;  en  my  young  mar- 
ster,  he  tuck  'n'  writ  back,  he  did,  dat  ef  dey 
wuz  anythin'  in  dat  box  w'at  make  'im  git  puny 


Azalia  287 

wid  de  homesickness,  hit  uz  dat  ar  'lasses  candy. 
Yassum,  he  cert'n'y  did,  kaze  dey  tuck  'n'  read 
it  right  out'n  de  letter  whar  he  writ  it. 

"  'Twa'n't  long  after  dat  'fo'  we-all  got  de 
word  dat  my  young  marster  done  jinded  inter 
de  war  wid  some  yuther  boys  w'at  been  at  de 
same  school'ouse  wid  'im.  Den,  on  top  er  dat, 
yer  come  news  dat  he  gwine  git  married.  Bless 
yo'  soul,  honey,  dat  sorter  rilded  me  up,  en  I 
march  inter  de  big  'ouse,  I  did,  en  I  up  'n'  tell 
mistis  dat  she  better  lemme  go  up  dar  en  fetch 
dat  chile  home;  en  den  mistis  say  she  gwine  sen' 
me  on  dar  fer  ter  be  wid  'im  in  de  war,  en  take 
keer  un  'im.  Dis  holp  me  up  might'ly,  kaze  I 
wuz  a  mighty  biggity  nigger  in  dem  days.  De 
white  folks  done  raise  me  up  right  'long  wid 
um,  en  way  down  in  my  min'  I  des  laid  off  fer 
ter  go  up  dar  in  Ferginny,  en  take  my  young 
marster  by  he's  collar  en  fetch  'im  home,  des 
like  I  done  w'en  he  use  ter  git  in  de  hin'ouse  en 
bodder  'long  wid  de  chickens. 

"Dat  wuz  way  down  in  my  min',  des  like  I 
tell  you,  but  bless  yo'  soul,  chile,  hit  done  drap 
out  'mos'  'fo'  I  git  ter  'Gusty,  in  de  Nunited 


288  Free  Joe 

State  er  Georgy.  Time  I  struck  de  railroad  I 
kin  see  de  troops  a-troopin',  en  year  de  drums 
a-drummin'.  De  trains  wuz  des  loaded  down 
wid  urn.  Let  'lone  de  passenger  kyars,  dey  wuz 
in  de  freight-boxes  yit,  en  dey  wuz  de  sassiest 
white  mens  dat  yever  walk  Jpon  topside  de 
groun'.  Mon,  dey  wuz  a  caution.  Dey  had  nig 
gers  wid  urn,  en  de  niggers  wuz  sassy,  en  ef  I 
hadn't  a-frailed  one  un  um  out,  I  dunner  w'at 
would  er  'come  un  me. 

"Hit  cert'n'y  wuz  a  mighty  long  ways  fum 
dese  parts.  I  come  down  yer  fum  Ferginny  in 
a  waggin  w'en  I  wuz  des  'bout  big  nuff  fer  ter 
hoi'  a  plow  straight  in  de'  furrer,  but  'tain't  look 
like  ter  me  dat  'twuz  sech  a  fur  ways.  All  day 
en  all  night  long  fer  mighty  nigh  a  week  I  year 
dem  kyar-wheels  go  clickity-clock,  elickity- 
clock,  en  dem  ingines  go  choo-choo-choo,  choo- 
choo-choo,  en  it  look  like  we  ain't  never  gwine 
git  dar.  Yit,  git  dar  we  did,  en  'tain't  take  me 
long  fer  ter  fin'  de  place  whar  my  young  mars- 
ter  is.  I  laid  off  ter  fetch  'im  home;  well, 
ma'am,  w'en  I  look  at  'im  he  skeer'd  me.  Yas- 
sum,  you  may  b'lieve  me  er  not  b'lieve  me,  but  he 


Azalia  289 

skeer'd  me.  Stiddier  de  boy  w'at  I  wuz  a-hunt- 
in'  fer,  dar  he  wuz,  a  great  big  grow'd-up  man, 
en  bless  yo'  soul,  he  wuz  a-trompin'  roun'  dar 
wid  great  big  boots  on,  en,  mon,  dey  had  spur- 
rers  on  um. 

"Ef  I  hadn't  er  year  'im  laugh,  I  nev'd 
a-know'd  'im  in  de  roun'  worl'.  I  say  ter  my- 
se'f,  s'  I,  I'll  des  wait  en  see  ef  he  know  who  I 
is.  But  shoo!  my  young  marster  know  me  time 
he  lays  eyes  on  me,  en  no  sooner  is  he  see  me  dan 
he  fetched  a  whoop  en  rushed  at  me.  He  'low : 
'Hello,  Daddy!  whar  de  name  er  goodness  you 
rise  fum?'  He  allers  call  me  Daddy  sence  he 
been  a  baby.  De  minute  he  say  dat,  it  come 
over  me  'bout  how  lonesome  de  folks  wuz  at 
home,  en  I  des  grabbed  'im,  en  'low:  'Honey, 
you  better  come  go  back  wid  Daddy.' 

"He  sorter  hug  me  back,  he  did,  en  den  he 
laugh,  but  I  tell  you  dey  wa'n't  no  laugh  in  me, 
kaze  I  done  see  w'iles  I  gwine  long  w'at  kinder 
'sturbance  de  white  folks  wuz  a-gettin'  up,  en 
I  know'd  dey  wuz  a-gwine  ter  be  trouble  pile 
'pon  trouble.  Yit  dar  he  wuz  a-laughin'  en 
a-projickin',  en  'mongs'  all  dem  yuther  mens 

VOL.  3  *3 


290  Free  Joe 

dey  wa'n't  none  un  um  good-lookin'  like  my 
young  marster.  I  don't  keer  w'at  kinder  cloze 
he  put  on,  dey  fit  'im,  en  I  don't  keer  w'at  crowd 
he  git  in,  dey  ain't  none  un  um  look  like  'im. 
En  'tain't  on'y  me  say  dat;  I  done  year  lots  er 
yuther  folks  say  dem  ve'y  words. 

"I  ups  en  sez,  s'  I :  'Honey,  you  go  'long  en  git 
yo'  things,  en  come  go  home  'long  wid  Daddy. 
Dey  er  waitin'  fer  you  down  dar' — des  so!  Den 
he  look  at  me  cute  like  he  us'ter  w'en  he  wuz  a 
baby,  en  he  'low,  he  did: 

"  'I'm  mighty  glad  you  come,  Daddy,  en  I 
hope  you  brung  yo'  good  cloze,  kaze  you  des 
come  in  time  fer  ter  go  in  'ten'ance  on  my  wed- 
din'.'  Den  I  'low:  'You  oughtn'  be  a-talkin'  dat 
away,  honey.  W'at  in  de  name  er  goodness  is 
chilluns  like  you  got  ter  do  wid  marryin'?' 
Wid  dat,  he  up  'n'  laugh,  but  'twa'n't  no  laugh- 
in'  matter  wid  me.  Yit  'twuz  des  like  he  tell 
me,  en  'twa'n't  many  hours  'fo'  we  wuz  gal- 
lopin'  cross  de  country  to'ds  Marse  Randolph 
Herndon'  place;  en  dar  whar  he  married.  En 
you  may  b'lieve  me  er  not,  ma'am,  des  ez  you 
please,  but  dat  couple  wuz  two  er  de  purtiest 


Azalia  291 

chilluns  you  ever  laid  eyes  on,  en  dar  Miss 
Hallie  in  dar  now  fer  ter  show  you  I'm  a-tellin' 
de  true  word.  'Mos'  'fo'  de  weddin'  wuz  over, 
news  com  dat  my  young  marster  en  de  folks  wid 
'im  mus'  go  back  ter  camps,  en  back  we  went. 

"Well,  ma'am,  dar  we  wuz — a  mighty  far 
ways  fum  home,  Miss  Hallie  a-cryin',  en  de  war 
gwine  on  des  same  ez  ef  'twuz  right  out  dar  in 
de  yard.  My  young  marster  'low  dat  I  des  come 
in  time,  kaze  he  mighty  nigh  pe'sh'd  fer  sumpin' 
'n'er  good  ter  eat.  I  whirled  in,  I  did,  en  I  cook 
'im  some  er  de  right  kinder  vittles;  but  all  de 
time  I  cookin',  I  say  ter  myse'f,  I  did,  dat  I 
mought  er  come  too  soon,  er  I  mought  er  come 
too  late,  but  I  be  bless'  ef  I  come  des  in  time. 

"Hit  went  on  dis  away  scan'lous.  We 
marched  en  we  stopped,  en  we  stopped  en  we 
marched,  en  'twuz  de  Lord's  blessin'  dat  we  rid 
bosses,  kaze  ef  my  young  marster  had  'a'  bin 
'blige'  ter  tromp  thoo  de  mud  like  some  er  dem 
white  mens,  I  speck  I'd  'a'  had  ter  tote  'im, 
dough  he  uz  mighty  spry  en  tough.  Sometimes 
dem  ar  bung-shells  'u'd  drap  right  in  'mongs' 
whar  we-all  wuz,  en  dem  wuz  de  times  w'en  I 


292  Free  Joe 

feel  like  I  better  go  off  some'r's  en  hide,  not  dat 
I  wuz  anyways  skeery,  kaze  I  wa'n't;  but  ef  one 
er  dem  ur  bung-shells  had  er  strucken  me,  I 
dunner  who  my  young  marster  would  'a'  got 
ter  do  he's  cookin'  en  he's  washin'. 

"Hit  went  on  dis  away,  twel  bimeby  one  night, 
way  in  de  night,  my  young  marster  come  whar 
I  wuz  layin',  en  shuck  me  by  de  shoulder.  I 
wuz  des  wide  'wake  ez  w'at  he  wuz,  yit  I  ain't 
make  no  motion.  He  shuck  me  ag'in,  en  'low: 
'Daddy!  Oh,  Daddy!  I'm  gwine  on  de  skir 
mish  line.  I  speck  we  gwine  ter  have  some  fun 
out  dar.' 

"I  'low,  I  did:  'Honey,  you  make  'aste  back 
ter  break'us,  kaze  I  got  some  sossige  meat  en 
some  gennywine  coffee/ 

"He  ain't  say  nothin',  but  w'en  he  git  little 
ways  off,  he  tu'n  'roun'  en  come  back,  he  did,  en 
'low:  'Good  night,  Daddy.'  I  lay  dar,  en  I  year 
un  w'en  dey  start  off.  I  year  der  hosses  a-snort- 
in',  en  der  spurrers  a-jinglin'.  Ef  dey  yever  wuz 
a  restless  creetur  hit  uz  me  dat  night.  I  des  lay 
dar  wid  my  eyes  right  wide  open,  en  dey  stayed 
open,  kaze,  atter  w'ile,  yer  come  daylight,  en 


Azalia  293 

den  I  rousted  out,  I  did,  en  built  me  a  fire,  en 
'twa'n't  long  'fo'  I  had  break'us  a-fryin'  en  de 
coffee  a'b'ilin',  kaze  I  spected  my  young  marster 
eve'y  minute;  en  he  uz  one  er  dese  yer  kinder 
folks  w'at  want  he's  coffee  hot,  en  all  de  yuther 
vittles  on  de  jump. 

"I  wait  en  I  wait,  en  still  he  ain't  come.  Hit 
cert'n'y  look  like  a  mighty  long  time  w'at  he 
stay  'way;  en  bimeby  I  tuck  myse'f  off  ter  make 
some  inquirements,  kaze  mighty  nigh  all  he's 
comp'ny  done  gone  wid  'im.  I  notice  dat  de 
white  mens  look  at  me  mighty  kuse  w'en  I  ax 
um  'bout  my  young  marster;  en  bimeby  one  un 
um  up  en  'low:  'Ole  man,  whar  yo'  hat?'  des  dat 
away.  I  feel  on  my  haid,  en,  bless  goodness! 
my  hat  done  gone;  but  I  'spon'  back,  I  did: 
*  'Tain't  no  time  fer  no  nigger  man  fer  ter  be 
bodder'n'  'bout  he's  hat,'  des  so.  Well,  ma'am, 
bimeby  I  struck  up  wid  some  er  my  young  mars 
ter'  comp'ny,  en  dey  up  'n'  tell  me  dat  dey  had 
a  racket  out  dar  en  de  skirmish  line,  en  dey  hat 
ter  run  in,  en  dey  speck  my  young  marster  be 
'long  terreckerly.  Den  I  year  some  un  say  dat 
day  speck  de  Yankees  tuck  some  pris'ners  out 


294  Free  Joe 

dar,  en  den  I  know  dat  ain't  gwine  do  fer  me. 
I  des  runn'd  back  ter  whar  we  been  campin',  en 
I  mount  de  hoss  w'at  my  young  marster  gun  me, 
en  I  rid  right  straight  out  ter  whar  dey  been 
fightin'.  My  min'  tol'  me  dey  wuz  sumpin'  'n'er 
wrong  out  dar,  en  I  let  you  know,  ma'am,  I  rid 
mighty  fas';  I  sholy  made  dat  ole  hoss  git  up 
fum  dar.  De  white  mens  dey  holler  at  me  w'en 
I  pass,  but  eve'y  time  dey  holler  I  make  dat 
creetur  men'  he's  gait.  Some  un  um  call  me  a 
country-ban',  en  say  I  runnin'  'way,  en  ef  de 
pickets  hadn't  all  been  runnin'  in,  I  speck  dey'd 
'a'  fetched  de  ole  nigger  up  wid  de  guns.  But 
dat  never  cross  my  min'  dat  day. 

"Well,  ma'am,  I  haid  my  hoss  de  way  de 
pickets  comin'  fum;  en  ef  dey  hadn't  er  been  so 
much  underbresh  en  so  many  sassyfac  saplin's, 
I  speck  I'd  'a'  run  dat  creetur  ter  def :  but  I  got 
ter  whar  I  hatter  go  slow,  en  I  des  pick  my  way 
right  straight  forrerd  de  bes'  I  kin.  I  ain't 
hatter  go  so  mighty  fur,  nudder,  'fo'  I  come 
'cross  de  place  whar  dey  had  de  skirmish;  en 
fum  dat  day  ter  dis  I  ain't  never  see  no  lone 
some  place  like  dat.  Dey  wuz  a  cap  yer,  a  hat 


Azalia  295 

yander,  en  de  groun'  look  like  it  wuz  des 
strowed  wid  um.  I  stop  en  listen.  Den  I  rid 
on  a  little  ways,  en  den  I  stop  en  listen.  Bimeby 
I  year  boss  whicker,  en  den  de  creetur  w'at  I'm 
a-ridin',  he  whicker  back,  en  do  des  like  he 
wanter  go  whar  de  t'er  hoss  is.  I  des  gin  'im 
de  rein ;  en  de  fus  news  I  know,  he  trot  right  up 
ter  de  big  black  hoss  w'at  my  young  marster  rid. 
"I  look  little  furder,  I  did,  en  I  see  folks  lyin' 
on  de  groun'.  Some  wuz  double'  up,  en  some 
wuz  layin'  out  straight.  De  win'  blow  de  grass 
back'ards  en  forrerds,  but  dem  sojer-men  dey 
never  move;  en  den  I  know  dey  wuz  dead.  I 
look  closer;  en  dar  'pon  de  groun',  'mos'  right 
at  me,  wuz  my  young  marster  layin'  right  by  de 
side  er  one  er  dem  Yankee  mens.  I  jumped 
down,  I  did,  en  run  ter  whar  he  wuz;  but  he 
wuz  done  gone.  My  heart  jump,  my  knees 
shuck,  en  my  han'  trimble ;  but  I  know  I  got  ter 
git  away  fum  dar.  Hit  look  like  at  fus'  dat  him 
en  dat  Yankee  man  been  fightin';  but  bimeby  I 
see  whar  my  young  marster  bin  crawl  thoo  de 
weeds  en  grass  ter  whar  de  Yankee  man  wuz 
layin';  en  he  had  one  arm  un'  de  man'  haid,  en 


296  Free  Joe 

de  ter  han'  wuz  gripped  on  he's  canteen.  I  fix 
it  in  my  min',  ma'am,  dat  my  young  marster 
year  dat  Yankee  man  holler  fer  water;  en  he  des 
make  out  fer  ter  crawl  whar  he  is,  en  dar  I 
foun'  um  bofe. 

uDey  wuz  layin'  close  by  a  little  farm  road, 
en  not  so  mighty  fur  off  I  year  a  chicken  crow- 
in'.  I  say  ter  myse'f  dat  sholy  folks  must  be 
livin'  whar  dey  chickens  crowin';  en  I  tuck'n' 
mount  my  young  marster's  boss,  en  right  'roun' 
de  side  er  de  hill  I  come  'cross  a  house.  De 
folks  wuz  all  gone;  but  dey  wuz  a  two-boss 
waggin  in  de  lot  en  some  gear  in  de  barn,  en 
I  des  loped  back  atter  de  yuther  boss,  en  'mos' 
'fo'  you  know  it,  I  had  dem  creeturs  hitch  up: 
en  I  went  en  got  my  young  marster  en  de  Yan 
kee  man  w'at  wuz.wid  'im,  en  I  kyard  um  back 
ter  de  camps.  I  got  um  des  in  time,  too,  kase 
I  ain't  mo'n  fairly  start  'fo'  I  year  big  gun,  be- 
bang!  en  den  I  know'd  de  Yankees  mus'  be 
a-comin'  back.  Den  de  bung-shells  'gun  ter 
bus' ;  en  I  ax  myse'f  w'at  dey  shootin'  at  me  fer, 
en  I  ain't  never  fin'  out  w'at  make  dey  do  it. 

"Well,  ma'am,  w'en  I  git  back  ter  camps,  dar 


Azalia  297 

wuz  Gunnel  Tip  Herndon,  w'ich  he  wuz  own 
br'er  ter  Miss  Hallie.  Maybe  you  been  year 
tell  er  Marse  Tip,  ma'am;  he  cert'ny  wuz  a 
mighty  fine  man.  Marse  Tip,  he  'uz  dar,  en 
'twa'n't  long  'fo'  Miss  Hallie  wuz  dar,  kaze  she 
ain't  live  so  mighty  fur;  en  Miss  Hallie  say  dat 
my  young  marster  en  de  Yankee  man  mus'  be 
brung  home  terge'er.  So  dey  brung  urn." 

Uncle  Prince  paused.  His  story  was  at  an 
end.  He  stooped  to  stir  the  fire;  and  when  he 
rose,  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Humble  as  he 
was,  he  could  pay  this  tribute  to  the  memory  of 
the  boy  soldier  whom  he  had  nursed  in  sickness 
and  in  health.  It  was  a  stirring  recital.  Per 
haps  it  is  not  so  stirring  when  transferred  to 
paper.  The  earnestness,  the  simplicity,  the  awk 
ward  fervor,  the  dramatic  gestures,  the  unique 
individuality  of  Uncle  Prince,  can  not  be  repro 
duced;  but  these  things  had  a  profound  effect 
on  Miss  Eustis  and  her  aunt. 


298  Free  Joe 


VII 

THROUGHOUT  the  narrative  the  piano  had 
been  going,  keeping,  as  it  seemed,  a  weird  ac 
companiment  to  a  tragic  story.  This  also  had 
its  effect;  for,  so  perfectly  did  the  rhythm  and 
sweep  of  the  music  accord  with  the  heart-rend 
ing  conclusion,  that  Helen,  if  her  mind  had 
been  less  preoccupied  with  sympathy,  would 
probably  have  traced  the  effect  of  it  all  to  a 
long  series  of  rehearsals:  in  fact,  such  a  sugges 
tion  did  occur  to  her,  but  the  thought  perished 
instantly  in  the  presence  of  the  unaffected  sim 
plicity  and  the  childlike  earnestness  which  ani 
mated  the  words  of  the  old  negro. 

The  long  silence  which  ensued — for  the  piano 
ceased,  and  Hallie  nestled  at  Helen's  side  once 
more — was  broken  by  General  Garwood. 

"We  were  never  able  to  identify  the  Union 
soldier.  He  had  in  his  possession  a  part  of  a 
letter,  and  a  photograph  of  himself.  These  were 
in  an  inner  pocket.  I  judge  that  he  knew  he  was 
to  be  sent  on  a  dangerous  mission,  and  had  left 


Azalla  299 

his  papers  and  whatever  valuables  he  may  have 
possessed  behind  him.  The  little  skirmish  in 
which  he  fell  was  a  surprise  to  both  sides.  A 
scouting  party  of  perhaps  a  dozen  Federal  cav 
alrymen  rode  suddenly  upon  as  many  Confeder 
ate  cavalrymen  who  had  been  detailed  for  special 
picket  duty.  There  was  a  short,  sharp  fight,  and 
then  both  sides  scampered  away.  The  next  day 
the  Federal  army  occupied  the  ground." 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  Helen,  "that  his  identity 
should  be  so  utterly  lost." 

"Hallie,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Garwood, 
"would  it  trouble  you  too  much  to  get  the 
photograph  of  the  Union  soldier?  If  it  is  any 
trouble,  my  child— 

Hallie  went  swiftly  out  of  the  room,  and  re 
turned  almost  immediately  with  the  photograph, 
and  handed  it  to  Helen,  who  examined  it  as  well 
as  she  could  by  the  dim  firelight. 

"The  face  is  an  interesting  one,  as  well  as 
I  can  make  out,"  said  Helen,  "and  it  has  a 
strangely  familiar  look.  He  was  very  young." 

She  handed  the  picture  to  her  aunt.  Her  face 
was  very  pale. 


300  Free  Joe 

"I  can't  see  by  this  light,"  said  Miss  Tewks- 
bury.  But  Uncle  Prince  had  already  brought  a 
lamp  which  he  had  been  lighting.  "Why,  my 
dear,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
that  suggested  both  awe  and  consternation — 
"why,  my  dear,  this  is  your  brother  Wendell!" 

"Oh,  Aunt  Harriet!  I  thought  so  —  I  was 
afraid  so  —  but  are  you  sure?" 

"As  sure  as  that  I  am  sitting  here." 

Helen  burst  into  tears.  "Oh,  why  didn't  I 
recognize  him?  How  could  I  fail  to  know  my 
darling  brother?"  she  cried. 

Hallie  rose  from  her  low  stool,  and  stood  gaz 
ing  at  Helen.  Her  face  was  pale  as  death,  but 
in  her  eyes  gleamed  the  fire  of  long-suppressed 
grief  and  passion.  She  seemed  like  one  trans 
formed.  She  flung  her  white  arms  above  her 
head,  and  exclaimed : 

"I  knew  it!  I  knew  it!  I  knew  that  some 
poor  heart  would  find  its  long-lost  treasure  here. 
I  have  felt  it — I  have  dreamed  it!  Oh,  I  am  so 
glad  you  have  found  your  brother!" 

"Oh,  but  I  should  have  known  his  picture," 
said  Helen. 


Azalia  301 

"But,  my  dear  child,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury, 
in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  "there  is  every  reason 
why  you  should  not  have  known  it.  This  pic 
ture  was  taken  in  Washington,  and  he  never  sent 
a  copy  of  it  home.  If  he  did,  your  father  put 
it  away  among  his  papers.  You  were  not 
more  than  twelve  years  old  when  Wendell 
went  away." 

"Perhaps  if  Hallie  will  get  the  fragment  of 
letter,"  said  General  Garwood  to  Miss  Tewks 
bury,  "it  will  confirm  your  impression." 

"Oh,  it  is  no  impression,"  replied  Miss  Tewks 
bury.  "I  could  not  possibly  be  mistaken." 

The  fragment  of  letter,  when  produced, 
proved  to  be  in  the  handwriting  of  Charles 
Osborne  Eustis;  and  there  was  one  sentence  in 
it  that  was  peculiarly  characteristic.  "Remem- 
be,  dear  Wendell,"  it  said,  "that  the  war  is  not 
urged  against  men;  it  is  against  an  institution 
which  the  whole  country,  both  North  and  South, 
will  be  glad  to  rid  itself  of." 

It  would  be  difficult,  under  all  the  circum 
stances,  to  describe  Helen's  thoughts.  She  was 
gratified — she  was  more  than  gratified — at  the 


302  Free  Joe 

unexpected  discovery,  and  she  was  grateful  to 
those  who  had  cared  for  her  brother's  grave  with 
such  scrupulous  care.  She  felt  more  at  home 
than  ever.  The  last  barrier  of  sectional  reserve 
(if  it  may  be  so  termed)  was  broken  down,  so 
far  as  she  was  concerned;  and  during  the  re 
mainder  of  her  stay,  her  true  character  —  her 
womanliness,  her  tenderness,  her  humor — re 
vealed  itself  to  these  watchful  and  sensitive 
Southerners.  Even  Miss  Tewksbury,  who  had 
the  excuse  of  age  and  long  habit  for  her  preju 
dices,  showed  the  qualities  that  made  her  friends 
love  her.  In  the  language  of  the  little  rector, 
who  made  a  sermon  out  of  the  matter,  "all 
things  became  homogeneous  through  the  me 
dium  of  sympathy  and  the  knowledge  of  mutual 
suffering." 

In  fact,  everything  was  so  agreeable  during 
the  visit  of  Helen  and  her  aunt  to  Waverly — a 
visit  that  was  prolonged  many  days  beyond  the 
limit  they  had  set — that  Uncle  Prince  remarked 
on  it  one  night  to  his  wife. 

"I'm  a  nigger  man,  'Mandy  Jane,"  said  he, 
"but  I  got  two  eyes,  en  dey  er  good  ones.  Wat 


Azalia  303 

I  sees  I  knows,  en  I  tell  you  right  now,  Marse 
Peyton  is  done  got  strucken." 

"Done  got  strucken  'bout  what?"  inquired 
'Mandy  Jane. 

"  'Bout  dat  young  lady  w'at  stayin'  yer.  Oh, 
you  neenter  holler,"  said  Uncle  Prince  in  re 
sponse  to  a  contemptuous  laugh  from  'Mandy 
Jane.  "I  ain't  nothin'  but  a  nigger  man,  but  I 
knows  w'at  I  sees." 

"Yes,  you  is  a  nigger  man,"  said  'Mandy  Jane 
triumphantly.  "Ef  you  wuz  a  nigger  'oman 
you'd  have  lots  mo'  sense  dan  w'at  you  got.  W'y, 
dat  lady  up  dar  ain't  our  folks.  She  mighty  nice, 
I  speck,  but  she  ain't  our  folks.  She  ain't  talk 
like  our  folks  yit." 

"No  matter  'bout  dat,"  said  Uncle  Prince.  "I 
ain't  seed  no  nicer  'oman  dan  w'at  she  is,  en  I 
boun'  you  she  kin  talk  mighty  sweet  w'en  she 
take  a  notion.  W'en  my  two  eyes  tell  me  de  news 
I  knows  it,  en  Marse  Peyton  done  got  strucken 
long  wid  dat  white  'oman." 

"En  now  you  gwine  tell  me,"  said  'Mandy 
Jane  with  a  fine  assumption  of  scorn,  "dat  Marse 
Peyton  gwine  marry  wid  dat  w'ite  'oman  en 


304  Free  Joe 

trapse  off  dar  ter  der  Norf?  Shoo!  Nigger 
man,  you  go  ter  bed  'fo'  you  run  yo'se'f 
'stracted." 

"I  dunno  whar  Marse  Peyton  gwine,  'Mandy 
Jane,  but  I  done  see  'im  talkin'  'long  wid  dat 
white  lady,  en  lookin'  at  her  wid  he's  eyes.  Huh ! 
don'  tell  me!  En  dat  ain't  all,  'Mandy  Jane," 
Uncle  Prince  went  on:  "dat  Bud  Stucky,  he's 
f  rever'n  etarnally  sneakin'  'roun'  de  house  up 
dar.  One  day  he  want  sumpin'  ter  eat,  en  nex' 
day  he  want  Miss  Hallie  fer  ter  play  en  de  pean- 
ner,  but  all  de  time  I  see  'im  a-watchin'  dat  ar 
white  lady  fum  de  Norf." 

"Hush!"  exclaimed  'Mandy  Jane. 

"Des  like  I  tell  you!"  said  Uncle  Prince. 

"Well,  de  nasty,  stinkin',  oudacious  villyun!" 
commented  'Mandy  Jane.  "I  lay  ef  I  go  up 
dar  en  set  de  dogs  on  'im,  he'll  stop  sneakin' 
'roun'  dis  place." 

"Let  'im  'lone,  'Mandy  Jane,  let  'im  'lone," 
said  Uncle  Prince  solemnly.  "Dat  ar  Bud 
Stucky,  he  got  a  mammy,  en  my  min'  tell  me 
dat  he's  mammy  kin  run  de  kyards  en  trick  you. 
Now  you  watch  out,  'Mandy  Jane.  You  go  on 


Azalia  305 

en  do  de  washin',  like  you  bin  doin',  en  den  ole 
Miss  Stucky  won't  git  atter  you  wid  de  kyards 
en  cunjur  you.  Dat  ole  'oman  got  er  mighty  bad 
eye,  mon." 

VIII 

UNCLE  PRINCE,  it  appears,  was  a  keen  ob 
server,  especially  where  General  Garwood  was 
concerned.  He  had  discovered  a  fact  in  regard 
to  "Marse  Peyton,"  as  he  called  him,  that  had 
only  barely  suggested  itself  to  that  gentleman's 
own  mind — the  fact  that  his  interest  in  Miss 
Eustis  had  assumed  a  phase  altogether  new  and 
unexpected.  Its  manifestations  were  pronounced 
enough  to  pester  Miss  Tewksbury,  but,  strange 
to  say,  neither  General  Garwood  nor  Miss  Eus 
tis  appeared  to  be  troubled  by  them.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  these  two  were  merely  new  characters 
in  a  very  old  story,  the  details  of  which  need  not 
be  described  or  dwelt  on  in  this  hasty  chronicle. 
It  was  not  by  any  means  a  case  of  love  at  first 
sight.  It  was  better  than  that:  it  was  a  case  of 
love  based  on  a  firmer  foundation  than  whim, 
or  passion,  or  sentimentality.  At  any  rate,  Helen 


306  Free  Joe 

and  her  stalwart  lover  were  as  happy,  appar 
ently,  as  if  they  had  just  begun  to  enjoy  life  and 
the  delights  thereof.  There  was  no  love-making, 
so  far  as  Miss  Tewksbury  could  see;  but  there 
was  no  attempt  on  the  part  of  either  to  conceal 
the  fact  that  they  heartily  enjoyed  each  other's 
companionship. 

Bud  Stucky  continued  his  daily  visits  for  sev 
eral  weeks;  but  one  day  he  failed  to  make  his 
appearance,  and  after  a  while  news  came  that 
he  was  ill  of  a  fever.  The  ladies  at  Waverly 
sent  his  mother  a  plentiful  supply  of  provisions, 
together  with  such  delicacies  as  seemed  to  them 
necessary;  but  Bud  Stucky  continued  to  waste 
away.  One  day  Helen,  in  spite  of  the  protests 
of  her  aunt,  set  out  to  visit  the  sick  man,  carry 
ing  a  small  basket  in  which  Hallie  had  placed 
some  broiled  chicken  and  a  small  bottle  of  home 
made  wine.  Approaching  the  Stucky  cabin,  she 
was  alarmed  at  the  silence  that  reigned  within. 
She  knocked,  but  there  was  no  response;  where 
upon  she  pushed  the  door  open  and  entered.  The 
sight  that  met  her  eyes,  and  the  scene  that  fol 
lowed,  are  still  fresh  in  her  memory. 


Azalla  307 

Poor  Bud  Stucky,  the  shadow  of  his  former 
self,  was  lying  on  the  bed.  His  thin  hands  were 
crossed  on  his  breast,  and  the  pallor  of  death  was 
on  his  emaciated  face.  His  mother  sat  by  the 
bed  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  his.  She  made  no 
sign  when  Helen  entered,  but  continued  to  gaze 
on  her  son. 

The  young  woman,  bent  on  a  mission 
of  mercy,  paused  on  the  threshold,  and  re 
garded  the  two  unfortunates  with  a  sympathy 
akin  to  awe.  Bud  Stucky  moved  his  head  un 
easily,  and  essayed  to  speak,  but  the  sound  died 
away  in  his  throat.  He  made  another  effort. 
His  lips  moved  feebly;  his  voice  had  an  un 
earthly,  a  far-away  sound. 

"Miss,"  he  said,  regarding  her  with  a  piteous 
expression  in  his  sunken  eyes,  "I  wish  you'd 
please,  ma'am,  make  maw  let  me  go."  He 
seemed  to  gather  strength  as  he  went  on.  "I'm 
all  ready,  an'  a-waitin';  I  wish  you'd  please, 
ma'am,  make  'er  let  me  go." 

"Oh,  what  can  I  do?"  cried  Helen,  seized  with 
a  new  sense  of  the  pathos  that  is  a  part  of  the 
humblest  human  life. 


308  Free  Joe 

"Please,  ma'am,  make  'er  let  me  go.  I  been 
a-layin'  here  ready  two  whole  days  an'  three  long 
nights,  but  maw  keeps  on  a-watchin'  of  me;  she 
won't  let  me  go.  She's  got  'er  eyes  nailed  on  me 
constant." 

Helen  looked  at  the  mother.  Her  form  was 
wasted  by  long  vigils,  but  she  sat  bolt  upright  in 
her  chair,  and  in  her  eyes  burned  the  fires  of 
an  indomitable  will.  She  kept  them  fixed  on 
her  son. 

"Won't  you  please,  ma'am,  tell  maw  to  let  me 
go?  I'm  so  tired  er  waitin'." 

The  plaintive  voice  seemed  to  be  an  echo 
from  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  Helen, 
watching  narrowly  and  with  agonized  curiosity, 
thought  she  saw  the  mother's  lips  move;  but  no 
sound  issued  therefrom.  The  dying  man  made 
another  appeal: 

"Oh,  I'm  so  tired!  I'm  all  ready,  an'  she 
won't  let  me  go.  A  long  time  ago  when  I  us' 
ter  ax  'er,  she'd  let  me  do  'most  anything,  an' 
now  she  won't  let  me  go.  Oh,  Lordy!  I'm  so 
tired  er  waitin'!  Please,  ma'am,  ax  'er  to  let 
me  go." 


Azalia  309 

Mrs.  Stucky  rose  from  her  chair,  raised  her 
clasped  hands  above  her  head,  and  turned  her 
face  away.  As  she  did  so,  something  like  a  sigh 
of  relief  escaped  from  her  son.  He  closed  his 
eyes,  and  over  his  wan  face  spread  the  repose  and 
perfect  peace  of  death. 

Turning  again  toward  the  bed,  Mrs.  Stucky 
saw  Helen  weeping  gently.  She  gazed  at  her 
a  moment.  "Whatter  you  cryin'  fer  now?" 
she  asked  with  unmistakable  bitterness.  "You 
wouldn't  a-wiped  your  feet  on  'im.  Ef  you  wuz 
gwine  ter  cry,  whyn't  you  let  'im  see  you  do  it 
'fore  he  died?  What  good  do  it  do  'im  now? 
He  wa'n't  made  out'n  i'on  like  me." 

Helen  made  no  reply. 

She  placed  her  basket  on  the  floor,  went  out 
into  the  sunlight,  and  made  her  way  swiftly 
back  to  Waverly.  Her  day's  experience  made 
a  profound  impression  on  her,  so  much  so 
that  when  the  time  came  for  her  to  go  home, 
she  insisted  on  going  alone  to  bid  Mrs.  Stucky 
good-by. 

She  found  the  lonely  old  woman  sitting  on 
her  door-sill.  She  appeared  to  be  gazing  on  the 


310  Free  Joe 

ground,  but  her  sun-bonnet  hid  her  face.  Helen 
approached,  and  spoke  to  her.  She  gave  a  quick 
upward  glance,  and  fell  to  trembling.  She  was 
no  longer  made  of  iron.  Sorrow  had  dimmed 
the  fire  of  her  eyes.  Helen  explained  her  visit, 
shook  hands  with  her,  and  was  going  away,  when 
the  old  woman,  in  a  broken  voice,  called  her 
to  stop.  Near  the  pine-pole  gate  was  a  lit 
tle  contrivance  of  boards  that  looked  like 
a  bird-trap.  Mrs.  Stucky  went  to  this,  and 
lifted  it. 

"Come  yer,  honey,"  she  cried,  "yer's  somepin' 
I  wanter  show  you."  Looking  closely,  Helen 
saw  molded  in  the  soil  the  semblance  of  a 
footprint.  "Look  at  it,  honey,  look  at  it," 
said  Mrs.  Stucky;  "that's  his  darlin'  precious 
track." 

Helen  turned,  and  went  away  weeping.  The 
sight  of  that  strange  memorial,  which  the  poor 
mother  had  made  her  shrine,  leavened  the  girl's 
whole  after-life. 

When  Helen  and  her  aunt  came  to  take  their 
leave  of  Azalia,  their  going  away  was  not  by 
any  means  in  the  nature  of  a  merry-making. 


Azalia  3 1 1 

They  went  away  sorrowfully,  and  left  many  sor 
rowful  friends  behind  them.  Even  William,  the 
bell-ringer  and  purveyor  of  hot  batter-cakes  at 
Mrs.  Haley's  hotel,  walked  to  the  railroad  sta 
tion  to  see  them  safely  off.  General  Garwood 
accompanied  them  to  Atlanta;  and  though  the 
passenger  depot  in  that  pushing  city  is  perhaps 
the  most  unromantic  spot  to  be  found  in  the  wide 
world — it  is  known  as  the  "Car-shed"  in  At- 
lantese — it  was  there  that  he  found  courage  to 
inform  Miss  Eustis  that  he  purposed  to  visit  Bos 
ton  during  the  summer  in  search  not  only  of 
health,  but  of  happiness;  and  Miss  Eustis 
admitted,  with  a  reserve  both  natural  and 
proper,  that  she  would  be  very  happy  to  see 
him. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  chronicle  to  fol 
low  General  Garwood  to  Boston.  The  files  of 
the  Boston  papers  will  show  that  he  went  there, 
and  that,  in  a  quiet  way,  he  was  the  object  of 
considerable  social  attention.  But  it  is  in  the 
files  of  the  "Brookline  Reporter"  that  the  long 
est  and  most  graphic  account  of  the  marriage  of 
Miss  Eustis  to  General  Garwood  is  to  be  found. 


3 1 2  Azalia 

It  is  an  open  secret  in  the  literary  circles  of 
Boston  that  the  notice  in  the  "Reporter"  was 
from  the  pen  of  Henry  P.  Bassett,  the  novelist 
It  was  headed  "Practical  Reconstruction";  and 
it  was  conceded  on  all  sides  that,  even  if  the 
article  had  gone  no  farther  than  the  head-line, 
it  would  have  been  a  very  happy  description  of 
the  happiest  of  events. 


THE    END 


X.- 

LiBRSRY 


